THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Henry  Sillcox, 
No 


XARIFFA'S    POEMS. 


PHILADELPHIA 
J.    I1,.    LI  1'1'INCOTT    &.    CO. 

1870. 


TO    MY    MOTHER. 


DEAR  Mother !    In  the  still  and  solemn  hours 
That  come  so  often  in  my  lifetime  now, 
Like  rocks  that  rise  to  intercept  the  flow 

Of  tides  that  sweep  too  swiftly  past  their  shores, 

How  tenderly  my  heart  thy  name  adores  ! 
I  see  thee  on  thy  pinnacle  of  years, 

Thy  feet  just  trembling  on  the  Future's  floors ; 
Thy  locks  of  strength  by  Time's  relentless  shears 

All  shorn  ;  toward  the  Yonder  World  thine  eye 
Uplifted  yearningly.      O  Mother  mine  ! 

As  the  swift  footsteps  of  the  years  go  by 
I  cling  to  thee  as  to  a  thing  divine, 

And  feel  how  dark  a  path  my  life  would  be, 

Noblest  of  'mothers,  if  bereft  of  thee. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

To  my  Mother 3 

The  Backwoodsman's  Daughter 1 1 

"  John." 17 

The  Torchlight  Procession 19 

Wife  Words 21 

At  the  Ball 23 

How  Much  do  you  Love  me  ? 25 

Epithalamium. 27 

The  Sudden  Shower. 30 

A  Tenant's  Petition  to  a  Landlord. 33 

My  World. 38 

Katy  Did 44 

Bring  me  no  Captive  Pets 49 

November. 51 

Fidelitas 53 

Sunrise 59 

God  Bless  You  ! 61 

Malvina 63 

The  Baby 65 

To  an  Old  Portfolio 66 

Somebody 68 

A  Memory 69 


8  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Lines  to  Cora 72 

The  Slaughtered  Crane 75 

The  Organ-Grinder 80 

To  Baby  Lily 82 

The  Haunted  House 84 

To  my  Sister. 88 

Waiting 90 

My  Grandsire's  Watch. 91 

Umbrae : 93 

Gertrude 96 

"  You  are  Not  Forgotten." 98 

Ode  to  the  "  Mother  Hubbard"  of  a  Fancy-Dress  Ball 100 

My  Birth-day 102 

Acrostic. 105 

The  Box  of  Old  Shoes 106 

Willie's  Wife in 

The  Murderer 1 13 

We  Twa 117 

Woman's  Work 120 

The  March  Snow-Storm 123 

Deserted 125 

To  Guy 127 

Do  Angels  Weep  ? 128 

Ingemisco 130 

The  Old  Willow  Tree 133 

Zura 136 

A  Reverie 141 

The  Bandit's  Burial 143 

The  Lion's  Ride 146 

Elodie 150 

Song. 153 

By  the  Fire 155 

Inscription  for  a  Tomb 158 


CONTENTS.  9 

PAGE 

Mary  Moore 159 

Mirabelle 161 

Little  May  Ballard 165 

Lizzie 167 

Love  Lines 171 

To  Some  False  Hair. 1 73 

The  Little  Fiddler's  Song 175 

To  a  Flower  from  Gertrude's  Tomb 178 

After  the  War 179 

Lines 181 

Lines  to  a  Bouquet 184 

Never  Complain 186 

Ebb  and  Flow 190 

The  Old  Clock  in  the  Corner 191 

The  Odd  Fellow's  Funeral 194 

My  Pupils 197 

Luther  Lane 200 

Childe  Sibyl 204 

The  Toy 207 

Our  Own 210 

The  Church  Bell's  Lament 212 

Blood 216 

Pressed  Flowers 219 

Don't  You  Remember  ? 221 

Creed. 226 

A  Toast 228 

To-Whoo 229 

The  Suicide 232 

Twilight 234 

Trust 236 

Fallacia. 238 

Invocation 243 

The  Lover  to  the  Blue  Ribbon  that  had  tied  Laura's  Letters 244 


io  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

At  Ada's  Tomb 245 

Fair  Coz 247 

SONNETS. 

Renunciation 249 

The  Maiden 250 

The  Man 251 

To  a  Caged  Mocking-Bird. 252 

To  One  Beloved 253 

To  my  Pen 254 

Lake  Pontchartrain 255 

To  the  Mouse  that  Nibbled  my  MSS 256 

Sacramentum  Amoris 257 

At  the  Wheel 260 


XARIFFA'S    POEMS. 


THE   BACKWOODSMAN'S   DAUGHTER. 

I   WAS  a  wanderer  from  my  place  of  birth, 
Seeking  among  the  wide  world's  busy  throng 
A  peaceful  harbor  for  my  woe-wrecked  heart. 
The  charm  of  home  was  gone — the  links  of  love, 
So  blessed  in  their  brightness,  broken  were, 
And  I  had  turned  away,  striving  to  heap 
Upon  the  black  grave  of  the  past  the  dust 
Of  dim  forgetfulness. 

Toward  the  West 

I  turned  my  troubled  brow.     I  had  heard  much 
Of  that  fair  land,  where  the  untrammeled  herd 
The  echoing  turf  salutes  with  scornful  hoof. 
Where  verdant  plains  lie  like  unfolded  scrolls 
Whose  emerald  pages  Nature  paints  with  flowers  ; 
Where  the  proud  stag  beside  his  timid  mate 
Drinks  from  undesecrated  streams  ;  and  all 
Seems  like  the  Eden  Garden  ere  the  stain 
Of  sin  besmeared  its  beauty.     There  I  turned, 
Not  with  the  hope  to  find  my  joys  again, 

11 


12        THE  BACKWOODSMAN'S  DAUGHTER. 

But  with  intent  my  misery  to  hide 
Out  of  men's  sight  for  ever. 

In  the  car 

Which  bore  me  on — whither  I  cared  nor  knew, 
So  it  was  westward  and  away — I  marked 
Among  the  travelers  a  swarthy  pair — 
A  woodman  and  his  wife.     Between  them  sat 
A  child — a  little  girl — whose  deep  blue  eyes, 
Beneath  their  golden  lashes  hiding,  looked 
Like  twin  forget-me-nots  by  sunbeams  kissed. 
About  her  pretty  brow  and  shoulders  bare 
Her  yellow  locks,  not  curled  nor  braided,  hung 
In  glittering  ripples  to  her  slender  wraist. 
So  wonderfully  fair  she  looked  beside 
Her  rough  protectors  in  her  fragile  grace, 
She  seemed  like  some  frail  wind-flower  peeping  out 
From  the  broad  shadow  of  two  gnarled  old  oaks. 

Her  lips,  steeped  in  their  early  innocence 
Like  morning  buds  in  dew,  parted  at  last, 
And  her  few  words  tripped  lightly  over  them 
Like  footsteps  over  flowers.     "  Father  dear," 
She  softly  said,  and  twined  her  little  hand 
Amongst  the  old  man's  gray  and  stubborn  locks — 
"  Dear  father,  tell  me,  are  we  almost  home  ? 
I  am  so  weary  of  this  clattering  car, 
This  dust  and  din,  and  all  this  careless  crowd 
Of  people  whom  I  never  saw  before — 
Tell  me,  dear  father,  are  we  almost  home?" 

"  'Most  home  !"  the  sire  returned  and  laid  his  hand 
Upon  her  upturned  brow  ;  "  and  why,  my  child, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN'S  DAUGHTER.        13 

Dost  long  to  reach  that  spot  which  ill  compares 
With  those  fair  city  scenes  whence  you  have  come  ? 
Dost  thou  forget  the  rich  man's  splendid  home, 
The  busy  streets,  with  all  their  glittering  crowds, 
The  gay  shop- windows  where  each  day  you  saw 
So  many  tempting  toys  and  wondrous  books? 
And  dost  remember  how  you  loved  to  hear 
The  chiming  church-bells  in  the  steeples  high, 
And  often  drew  your  little  hand  from  mine 
To  climb  the  steps,  and  through  the  doorways  vast 
Catch  glimpses  of  Religion's  love  of  show?" 

'  True,  father  dear,"  the  little  one  replied — 

'  True,  I  did  like  the  busy  city  crowds, 
The  lofty  houses  where  rich  people  dwell, 
The  gay  shop-windows  and  the  pretty  toys, 
Because  they  were  so  wonderful  and  new 
To  my  unpracticed  eyes.     In  vestibules 
Of  solemn  churches,  too,  I  loved  to  wait 
To  hear  the  wings  of  music  beat  the  air 
When  the  deep  organ  did  the  Sabbath  greet. 
I  well  remember  how  I  drew  away 
My  humble  garments,  lest  they  might  defile 
The  dazzling  robes  of  those  who  could  afford 
In  worthier  garb  to  worship.     Yet  I  knew 
The  heart  lies  naked  in  our  Father's  sight, 
Howe'er  the  form  is  clad  ;  and  I  was  sure 
That  He  could  see  my  fervent  love  for  Him 
Beneath  my  simple  gown.     I  envied  none 
Their  wealth,  nor  did  I  wonder  that  they  wore 
Their  best  in  presence  of  their  King." 

"  My  child," 
The  father  said,  while  to  his  rugged  face 


14        THE  BACKWOODSMAN'S  DAUGHTER. 

A  smile  came  tenderly,  "  thy  words  are  good  ; 
But  bear  in  mind  that  in  thy  Western  home 
All  this  which  thou  dost  own  to  having  loved. 
Will,  to  thy  beauty-loving  eyes,  be  lost ; 
Such  things  belong  not,  darling,  to  the  poor." 

"  The  poor  have  memories  just  like  the  rich," 
She  gently  said.     "lean  remember  all, 
And  make  my  mind  a  picture-book  to  read 
To  little  friends  who  have  not  seen  as  much." 

Into  the  father's  eye  leaped  a  swift  tear 
And  trembled  there,  while  with  unsteady  lip 
His  questions  still  he  plied  :  "  But  tell  me  why 
Thy  little  heart  hath  fixed  itself,  my  child, 
So  fondly  on  our  lowly  wildwood  cot? 
There  trials  are,  and  hardships  chain  the  hands 
Of  those  who  love  thee,  and  exacting  toil 
Doth  from  affection  steal  her  sweetest  hours. 
How  can  that  spot  be  brighter  in  thy  sight 
Than  homes  where  ease  presides  and  care  is  not?' 

Upon  the  woodman's  wrinkled  face  the  child 
Fixed  her  blue  eyes  in  wonder  at  his  words  ; 
And  then,  as  if  her  little  lips  returned 
The  all-sufficient  answer,  she  replied, 
"  Why,  father,  that  is  home!" 

The  shining  tear 

That  had  been  trembling  in  the  old  man's  eye, 
Fell,  at  her  words,  down  o'er  his  swarthy  cheek, 
And  with  a  quick  embrace  of  thankfulness 
He  clasped  his  darling  to  his  rough,  broad  breast, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN'S  DAUGHTER.        15 

Praising  the  Father  that  his  child  possessed 
That  best  of  blessings,  a  contented  heart. 

She,  smiling  there  within  his  loving  arms, 
Recalled  to  him  that  little  spot  out  West, 
Where,  in  the  sunny  forest-clearing  stood 
Their  lowly  rough-hewn  cabin,  where  each  morn 
The  merry  brook  ran  laughing  past  the  door, 
As  if  its  freight  were  joy  to  all  the  world. 

"  There,"  murmured  she,  half  dreaming  in  his  arms. 

"  The  livelong  day  among  the  woody  wilds 
I  find  such  pretty  playmates  and  playthings. 
The  velvet-footed  rabbit  waits  for  me 
Beneath  the  sheltering  cover  of  the  fern  ; 
The  squirrel,  chattering  o'er  his  nutty  meal, 
Flies  not  at  my  approach  ;  and  pretty  stones, 
With  fallen  acorns,  fill  my  lap  with  toys. 
The  cool  moss  seems  to  welcome  my  bare  feet, 
And  birds  recite  their  poetry  to  me 
As  perfectly  as  though  I  were  a  queen, 
And  never  ask  if  I  be  rich  or  poor !" 

Across  her  hair,  while  thus  she  prattled  on, 
The  slanting  sunbeams  gently  stretched  themselves, 
Then  stole  away  like  worshipers  content 
With  having  touched  some  consecrated  thing. 
Before  the  day  was  wholly  gone,  the  train 
Stopped  at  a  backwoods  station,  and  the  child, 
Holding  the  hands  of  those  whose  prize  she  was, 
Passed  from  my  sight  for  ever.     She  was  home. 

Long  did  I  muse  upon  the  simple  scene  ; 

And  like  a  sharp  rebuke  the  child's  sweet  words 


1 6        THE   BACKWOODSMAN'S  DAUGHTER. 

Sank  in  my  restless  heart.     She,  with  a  cot, 

A  few  wild  flowers  and  unfettered  pets, 

Was  rich  ;  whilst  I,  with  all  that  wealth  could  give, 

A  glittering  home  and  hosts  of  titled  friends, 

Lashed  to  the  demon  Discontent,  was  out 

Upon  the  world  a  wanderer  ! 

Long  years 

Have  sped  since  then,  but  in  my  dreams  by  night 
And  in  my  walks  by  day,  by  that  child's  voice 
I  feel  my  sad  heart  haunted.     Echoing  there, 
It  hath  for  me  a  strange  significance. 
Out  of  the  blazing  blue  of  noonday  skies, 
And  up  beyond  the  midnight's  starry  depths, 
It  seems  to  gently  lead  my  chastened  soul, 
And  leave  it  trembling  by  mysterious  gates, 
While  its  soft  echoes  whisper,  "  That  is  home  !" 


"JOHN." 


I  STAND  behind  his  elbow-chair, 
My  soft  hands  rest  upon  his  hair — 
Hair  whose  silver  is  dearer  to  me 
Than  all  the  gold  of  the  earth  could  be- 
And  my  eyes  of  brown 
Look  tenderly  down 
On  John,  my  John. 


The  firelight  leaps  and  laughs  and  warms, 
Wraps  us  both  in  its  ruddy  arms — 
John,  as  he  sits  in  the  hearth-glow  red, 
Me,  with  my  hands  on  his  dear  old  head — 

Encirling  us  both 

Like  a  ring  of  troth, 
Me  and  my  John. 


His  form  has  lost  its  early  grace, 
Wrinkles  rest  on  his  kindly  face  ; 

2*  B 


"  JOHN." 

His  brow  no  longer  is  smooth  and  fair. 
For  Time  has  left  his  autograph  there  ; 

But  a  noble  prize 

In  my  loving  eyes 
Is  John,  my  John. 


"  My  love,"  he  says — and  lifts  his  hands, 
Browned  by  the  suns  of  other  lands, 
In  tender  clasp  on  my  own  to  lay — 
"  How  long  ago  was  our  wedding-day  ?" 
I  smile  through  my  tears, 
And  say,  "  Years  and  years, 
My  John,  dear  John." 


We  say  no  more — the  firelight  glows  ; 

Both  of  us  muse — on  what,  who  knows  ? 

My  hands  drop  down  in  a  mute  caress — 

Each  throb  of  my  heart  is  a  wish  to  bless, 
With  my  life's  best  worth, 
The  heart  and  the  hearth 
Of  John,  my  John  ! 


THE    TORCHLIGHT    PROCESSION. 

IN  the  dark,  with  a  child  on  her  bosom, 
A  woman  is  walking  the  floor ; 
And  she  moans  while  she  hushes  her  darling, 

"  O  God  !  it  is  hard  to  be  poor  !" 
In  the  dark,  with  a  child  on  her  bosom — 

The  dark  of  a  comfortless  room  ; 

Not  even  a  candle's  dull  ray  to  soothe 

The  terrible  ache  of  the  gloom. 

Down  the  street  throngs  a  joyous  procession, 

With  thousands  of  lamps  all  alight, 
And  the  red  glare  of  whispering  rockets 

Ascending  the  silence  of  night. 
Oil  enough  for  the  multitudes  marching, 

And  banners  and  ribbons  and  flowers, 
While  the  blue  of  the  zenith  is  blazing 

With  grand  pyrotechnical  showers.  . 

All  alone  with  her  poor  little  burden, 

A  woman  with  hungering  eyes 
Soothes,  with  lips  that  are  pallid  with  fasting, 

Her  famishing  baby's  cries. 

19 


20  THE  TORCHLIGHT  PROCESSION. 

She  catches  the  echoes  of  loud  huzzas — 

"  Great  God  !"  she  sighs,  under  her  breath, 
"  While  Opulence  squanders  so  much  away, 
Must  my  little  ones  starve  to  death  ?" 

Hark,  the  tramp  of  the  marchers  comes  nearer ! 

Transparencies  gleam  past  her  door ; 
There  "  Our  Cause,"  "  Our  Kind,"  "  Our  Country," 
she  reads, 

But  never  one  mottoed  "  Our  Poor !" 
And  she  looks  at  the  flickering  torches, 

And  counts  the  magnificent  flags  ; 
Then  turns  with  a  gasp  to  her  darkness  again. 

And  her  scanty,  unseemly  rags. 

Like  a  river  of  light,  the  procession 

Flows  away  down  the  stony  street, 
And  the  star-studded  gates  of  the  midnight 

Close  on  the  reverberant  feet. 
The  music  dies  out  in  the  distance, 

All  silently  sink  to  their  rest, 
Save  a  maniac  mother  pacing  the  floor, 

A  little  cold  corpse  on  her  breast. 


WIFE-WORDS. 


T)  ELOVED  one  of  my  heart !  how  bright 
£3     The  future  lies  before  us  ! 
Bathed  in  affection's  purest  light 

It  casts  its  sunshine  o'er  us ; 
And  all  the  past  of  bitter  hours, 

Or  ones  of  sadder  seeming, 
Forgotten  are  amid  the  flowers 

On  which  our  hearts  lie  dreaming. 


The  gladsome  earth  we  e'en  might  deem 

Contained  no  grief  or  sadness, 
So  bright  and  joyous  is  our  dream 

Of  Love's  unclouded  gladness. 
Like  twin-born  flowers,  our  earnest  hearts 

Shall  pass  their  days  united  ; 
And  when  the  bloom  of  one  departs, 

The  other  will  be  blighted. 

21 


22  WIFE-  WORDS. 

III. 

Clasped  to  thy  fond  and  faithful  breast, 

The  links  of  life  seem  lengthened, 
And  round  our  spirits  softly  rest 

The  ties  our  love  has  strengthened. 
Thus  wandering  on,  with  hearts  in  one, 

Souls  linked  so  naught  can  sever  : 
We'll  side  by  side  seek  that  bright  home 

Where  love  endures  for  ever  ! 


AT    THE    BALL. 

NAY,  do  not  bend  thy  lips  toward  mine  ear 
To  whisper,  'mid  the  music  and  the  light, 
And  dizzy  dancers'  maddening  career, 

The  story  of  thy  strong  heart's  early  blight. 

I  do  not  care  to  know.     Of  little  worth 

I  count  that  friendship  which  would  fain  exact 

As  tribute  due  its  accidental  birth, 

The  key  to  thy  past's  storehouse  of  grim  fact. 

Keep  thine  own  secrets  hidden  in  thy  heart ; 

'Twixt  them  and  me  let  Silence  hang  her  screen  ; 
T  ask  but  to  rely  on  what  thou  art — 

It  matters  little  what  thou  may'st  have  been. 

There  is  a  Bluebeard's  chamber  with  us  all, 
Perhaps — a  little  key,  a  lock  all  rust — 

Where  hangs,  beheaded,  on  the  gloomy  wall 
Within,  our  proudest  hopes,  our  noblest  trust. 

Each  human  life  its  solemn  mystery  hath, 
Its  hidden  love  or  its  embittered  hate  ; 

Its  weary  wandering  in  some  stony  path, 
Its  fruitless  beating  'gainst  the  bars  of  fate  ; 

23 


24  AT  THE  BALL. 

Its  eager  aims  at  empyrean  heights, 

Its  downward  hurling  among  lowly  things  ; 

The  fading  from  its  eyes  of  dearest  sights, 
The  silent  folding  of  its  bruised  wings  ; 

Its  spring  of  promise,  rich  in  bud  and  bloom, 
Its  death  and  burial  and  its  lonely  stone, 

Hewn  from  the  quarries  of  despair  and  gloom, 
To  mark  some  grave  to  all  the  world  unknown ! 

So,  if  thou  hast  thy  wounds,  display  them  not — 
True  sympathy  demands  no  show  of  scars ; 

Trust  sponges  from  life's  tablet  every  blot, 
And  doubt  no  honest  friendship  ever  mars. 

But  come,  the  balcony  grows  chill,  I  feel ; 

Back  'mong  the  merry  maskers  let  us  go, 
To  hear  the  tap  of  the  hilarious  heel, 

And  see  them  point  the  educated  toe. 

The  rush,  the  whirl,  the  music  and  the  glare, 
The  masks  that  hide  false  faces,  and  the  ends 

Encompassed  by  deception,  all  are  there  : 

Your  arm — so — now,  good-night,  my  best  of  friends. 


HOW  MUCH  DO  YOU  LOVE  ME? 
INSCRIBED  TO  ONE  WHO  ASKED  THE  QUESTION. 

HOW  much  do  I  love  thee ? 
Go  ask  the  deep  sea 
How  many  rare  gems 
In  its  coral  caves  be  ; 
Or  ask  the  broad  billows 
That  ceaselessly  roar, 
How  many  bright  sands 
Do  they  kiss  on  the  shore. 

How  much  do  I  love  thee? 

Go  ask  of  a  star, 
How  many  such  worlds 

In  the  universe  are  ; 
Or  ask  of  the  breezes 

Which  soothingly  blow, 
From  whence  do  they  come 

And  whither  they  go. 

How  much  do  I  love  thee  ? 

Go  ask  of  the  sun 
To  tell  when  his  course 

Will  for  ever  be  done  ; 
3  25 


26  HOW  MUCH  DO   YOU  LOVE   ME? 

Or  demand  of  the  dust 

Over  which  thou  hast  trod, 

How  many  cold  hearts 
Moulder  under  the  sod. 

How  much  do  I  love  thee  ? 

When  billow  and  sea 
And  star  shall  have  told 

All  their  secrets  to  thee — 
When  zephyrs  and  sunbeam 

Their  courses  reveal — 
Thou  shalt  know  what  this  bosom 

Which  loves  thee  can  feel. 


EPITHALAMIUM. 

ONE  trembling  foot  upon  the  threshold  golden 
Of  that  mysterious  door 

Which  soon  will  swing  upon  its  hinges  olden, 
Beckon  her  through  the  portal  thus  tmfolden, 
And  ope  for  her  no  more. 

One  foot  on  that  untrodden  threshold  falling, 

One  yet  on  girlhood's  shore  ; 
A  voice  on  either  side  the  portal  calling ; 
Both  tuned  to  love,  but  one  almost  appalling — 

One  new,  one  known  of  yore. 

Both  tender,  one  half  tearful,  and  both  pleading — 

Yesterday  and  to-morrow  ; 
She  gives  a  hand  to  each  ;  the  Past,  receding, 
Cries,    "  Go !    may   thy   true   young    heart    know 
bleeding, 

And  thy  pure  soul  no  sorrow  !" 

She  lingers  yet  by  girlhood's  gladsome  river, 

Her  gaze  upon  the  tide  ; 

She  sees  the  sunbeams  through  the  shadows  quiver, 
Life  lures  her  with  new  charms  it  has  to  give  her 

Upon  the  other  side. 


28  EPITHALAMIUM. 

The  ripples  reach  her  feet ;  she  knows  not  whether 

The  more  to  joy  or  wonder  ; 
And  while  she  hesitates,  the  holy  father 
Has    said,    "  Whom    God     our    Lord    hath    joined 
together, 

Let  no  man  put  asunder." 

Let  those  who  can  shed  no  tears  at  a  wedding — 

Death's  jocund-hearted  brother. 
Why  should  all  tears  be  kept  for  funeral  shedding? 
In  marriage,  too,  its  mystic  pathway  treading, 

Joy  and  woe  kiss  each  other. 

There  the  same  robing  is  in  novel  raiment ; 

The  parting  pangs  ensue  ; 

The  loved  one's  bliss  received  as  precious  payment 
For  grief  which  finds  no  other  sweet  allayment 

With  those  who  say  adieu  ! 

The  mother  sees  a  coffin  in  the  bridal, 

Smile  on  it  though  she  may  ; 
Her  own  heart  lies  there,  shrouded,  suicidal — 
Bereft  of  what  most  blest  life's  lone  abidal 

In  her  she  gives  away. 

Yet    sound    the    harp  —  cease,    cease,    O    heart!    to 
tremble — 

Joy  to  the  wedded  pair  ! 

Lost  is  the  tinkling  brass  and  sounding  cymbal 
Of  thoughtless  years  in  the  ennobling  symbol 

Their  clasped  hands  now  wear. 


EPITHALAMIUM.  29 

They  have  gone  forth  on  sunny  seas  united ; 

Their  sail,  Love's  pure  white  wing — 
Their  rudder,  Trust ;  by  which  they  both  stand  plighted, 
Watching  the  compass  which  their  way  has  righted — 

The  golden  wedding-ring. 

Let  them  pass  on,  friend,  father,  sister,  mother ; 

With  Hope's  bright  flag  unfurled  : 
Heaven  loves  the  wedded  as  it  loves  none  other — 
With  perfect  faith  in  God  and  one  another 

They  may  defy  the  world. 

3* 


THE    SUDDEN    SHOWER. 

THE  weather,  one  day,  appeared  en  masque, 
With  a  deal  of  sunshine  on — 
A  flaunt  of  blue  o'er  his  great  rain-cask, 

Not  a  bit  of  cloud  did  he  don. 
The  streets  arose  from  their  slough  of  despond, 

The  gutters  felt  mighty  small ; 
The  smiles  came  back  to  the  face  of  the  pond, 
The  grace  to  the  grasses  tall. 

Too  tempting  by  far  !     The  belle  and  beau 

Looked  forth  at  the  masker  gay  ; 
Huzza  for  the  satin  that  shineth  so, 

For  beauty  and  show  to-day. 
Parasol  tiny  and  lithe  rattan, 

Bootee  of  patent  leather  ; 
Panama  hat  and  sandal-wood  fan, 

All  shining  with  the  weather. 

Rich  poult  de  sole  and  barege  Anglais, 
And  petticoats  tucked  to  the  knee  ; 

Satinets,  cassimers,  drap-d'ete, 
And  elegant  organdie  ; 

30 


THE   SUDDEN  SHOWER.  31 

And  gorgeous  silks,  ten  dollars  a  yard, 

The  exquisite  green  sunshade  ; 
Young  India  mull — blest  theme  for  the  bard — 

All  join  in  the  masquerade. 


The  gayest  masker  amongst  them  all — 

The  good-for-nothing  weather — 
Stii-s  rich  and  poor  and  short  and  tall, 

All  in  a  crowd  together. 
Fashion  flits  by  in  her  brocatelles 

And  Beggary  walks  behind  her, 
While  Folly  jingles  her  merry  bells, 

And  Youth  flies  past  to  find  her. 


And  wee  ones,  aping  the  larger  ton, 

Gotten  up  with  wondrous  pains, 
Make  up  in  furbelows,  and  so  on, 

Whatever  they  lack  in  trains. 
Fair  babes  in  mull  and  Valenciennes  lace, 

In  the  blinding  sunlight  squirm, 
And  "  mamma"  glides  with  as  grand  a  grace 

As  if  not  robed  by  a  worm  ! 


And  up  and  down,  in  pomp  and  parade, 

Simplicity,  decked  in  satins, 
Flirts  in  this  merry  masquerade 

With  wisdom  of  the  Latins. 
But  suddenly,  swiftly,  where  in  the  world 

Did  all  this  deluge  gather? 
Where  are  the  blue  and  the  sunshine  whirled? 

What  under  the  sun  ails  the  weather? 


32  THE   SUDDEN  SHOWER. 

Ha  !  ha  !  a  merry  old  traitor  he, 

And  the  votaries  of  the  sun, 
In  dripping,  bedraggled  finery, 

Acknowledge  themselves  undone. 
The  gutters  swell  to  respectable  creeks, 

The  streets  to  rivers  have  grown, 
.     While  roseate  lips  and  blushing  cheeks 

At  touch  of  water  have  flown. 


Parasol  tiny  and  lithe  rattan, 

Bootee  of  patent  leather, 
Panama  hat  and  sandal-wood  fan, 

In  arms  against  the  weather. 

Rich  poult  de  soie,  and  barege  Anglais — 

Oh  what  a  frightful  muddle  ! 
Petticoats  tucked  and  drap-d'ete, 

Fine  feathers  dipped  in  a  puddle  ! 
Green  sunshade  over  ten-dollar  silk, 

Is  shedding  copious  tears, 
And  young  Swiss  mull,  not  so  white  as  milk, 

Looks  much  too  old  for  its  years. 

Ha  !  presto  !  change  !  fly,  Jack,  and  begone  ! 

Fine  fashion  in  brocatelles ; 
Beggary  with  disfiguring  frown, 

And  Folly  with  muffled  bells  ; 
Flee,  one  and  all,  in  sorriest  plight, 

The  maskers  all  together, 
Each  with  a  sputtering  word  of  spite 

At  the  sudden  change  of  weather. 


A  TENANT'S  PETITION  TO  A  LANDLORD, 

BY  THE  OCCUPANT  OF  A  SHUTTERLESS  HOUSE. 

TO  that  Unknown  whom  auction  sales  have  made 
A  sort  of  myth  or  trenchant  trick  of  trade, 
I  would  pour  forth,  in  view  of  summer-time, 
My  aggravated  woes  in  rough-shod  rhyme  ; 
And  were  my  simple  foolscap  lute  or  lyre, 
My  landlord  would  its  deepest  strains  inspire. 

Perchance  this  good  man  never  yet  has  spent 
His  days  in  some  small  dwelling  made  to  rent — 
A  sort  of  tea-box  with  four  windows  placed 
Where  hieroglyphics  usually  are  traced, 
Unlined  by  Chinaman's  zinc-loving  eye 
To  keep  its  precious  contents  cool  and  dry. 
A  roof  as  flat  as  flattest  contradiction, 
And  ceilings  low  as  some  French  tale  of  fiction  ; 
So  that  we  sit  beneath  them  seared  and  mute, 
And  see  our  children  turning  to  dried  fruit ! 

Great  cracks  hung  up  on  hinges  and  called  doors, 
See-saws  laid  over  sleepers  and  called  floors, 

C  33 


34  A    TENANT'S  PETITION. 

Walls  beautified  by  spots  where  plaster  was, 
And  lank  lath  laughing  with  its  broken  jaws  ! 
Rooms  planned  by  some  one  skilled  in  short  divisio 
Who  thought,  no  doubt,  in  making  this  provision, 
Tenants,  like  dishes,  if  but  closely  packed, 
Run  very  much  less  risk  of  getting  cracked  ; 
Yet  rent  demanded  which,  in  bank-notes  small, 
Spread  on  the  floor  would  nicely  carpet  all. 


In  such  a  house  for  one  long  year  I've  borne 
The  yoke  of  inconvenience,  and  I've  torn 
My  silent  shoulders  with  its  jagged  weight, 
And  only  to  myself  bemoaned  my  fate. 
I've  frozen  when  it  froze,  and  mouldy  grew 
When    dampness     oozed    our    tomb-like     mansic 

through  ; 

When  summer  suns  their  dog-day  courses  ran, 
I've  dreamed,  at  night,  that  some  hot  frying-pan 
Held  my  poor  frame,  and  fancied  I  was  fish 
Left,  cook-forgotten,  in  my  scorching  dish. 

I've    plead    for  painters — panthers  would    soom 

come  ; 
For  masons — my  hearers  suddenly  grew  dumb. 

I  showed  the  stony  walls,  with  moisture  lined, 
The  powers  that  be"  grew  suddenly  stone  blind  ! 
Thus,  whatsoe'er  I've  asked  for  tenant's  uses 
Has  died  a  natural  death  of  poor  excuses. 
Finding  it  was  "  no  kind  of  use  to  talk," 
I  said,"  We  will  take  up  our  beds  and  walk  ;" 
Beneath  this  roof  no  more  my  blistered  brains 
Shall  frame  their  prayers  in  purgatorial  pains  ; 


A    TENANT'S  PETITION.  35 

Like  wandering  Arabs  we  must  roam  about ; 
Rest  we  in  rented  houses  on  our  route, 
Fate  and  self-preservation  cry,  "Move  out." 

Still  my  resolves  quite  hard  to  manage  prove  ; 
They  are  not  "balky,"  but  they  hate  "  to  move." 

With  hopeful  patience  do  they  turn  and  say, 
"  Make  the  house  tenantable — let  us  stay  !" 
My  landlord,  in  this  most  enlightened  age, 
When  solving  mysteries  is  all  the  rage, 

If  I  should  tell  what  in  this  building  housed 
Has  these  long  lines  of  dull  complaint  aroused — 
If  I  should  tell  what  ghostly  fingers  tap 
Upon  the  doors,  to  spoil  my  morning  nap — 
If  I  should  tell  what  spectres  on  the  roof 
Make  the  tin  sheets  from  shingles  spring  aloof — 
If  I  should  tell  what  awful  sights  I  see 
When  sleep  has  blinded  every  one  but  me, 
What  faces  fill  the  unshuttered  window-pane, 
I'm  sure  no  tenant  would  live  here  again. 

Still  worse  than  all,  when  the  long  summer  day 
Its  panting  heart  doth  'neath  our  roof-tree  lay — 
When  other  homes  are  cool,  and  blinds  of  green 
Tone  down  full  many  a  happy  family  scene, 
Laying  soft  shadows  in  the  parlors  neat, 
And  rendering  home  completeness  more  complete — 
In  this  strange  house,  where  breezes  never  play, 
Where  noontide  lies  upon  our  roof  all  day, 
Where  each  hot  room  an  inquisition  seems 
Which  fancy  fills  with  tortured  victims'  screams — 
Oh,  here — believe  me,  'tis  no  idle  tale  I  make — 
Some  martyr  daily  burneth  at  the  steak. 


36  A    TENANT'S  PETITION. 

Of  these  strange  things  I've  borne  my  silent  share, 
And  told  no  living  being  what  they  are  ; 

And  if,  kind  landlord,  you  will  grant  one  plea, 
No  mortal  e'er  shall  know  of  them  from  me. 


In  confidence  I  fain  would  say,  of  late 

Reports  have  got  abroad  about  the  state 

In  which  I  keep  my  house.     The  other  day 
I  heard  my  baby  had  been  seen  to  cry 
Because  a  grain  of  dust  was  in  its  eye  ; 

And  some  one  said  'twas  just  my  careless  way, 

I  hadn't  dusted  the  poor  child  that  day ! 

And  then  I  heard,  when  we  sat  down  to  tea — 
My  "  gudeman"  and  my  little  toddlers  three — 

Somebody  saw  the  table-cloth  was  darned. 

And  of  this  vulgar  fact  the  village  warned, 
And,  with  a  shiver  that  portended  chills, 

"  This    comes    of    women's    meddling    with    goose- 
quills." 

Another  said  our  shadows  on  the  wall 

Were  not  kept  perpendicular  at  all, 

But  moved  their  heads,  and  rocked  them  to  and  fro, 
As  well-bred  shadows  would  not  do,  you  know 

I'm  puzzled  how  these  horrid  facts  got  out, 

Who  took  the  time  to  peddle  them  about ; 

Hosts  of  good  friends  had  kindly  called  on  me, 
Broken  my  bread  and  sipped  the  cup  of  tea  ; 

But  who  the  foe  that  did  me  this  good  turn, 

Try  as  I  would,  was  more  than  I  could  learn. 

I  learned  at  last — discovered  how  'twas  done. 
You  see,  from  morn  till  even  does  the  sun 


A    TENANT'S  PETITION.  37 

All  day  walk  staring  our  small  windows  through, 

And  finding  out  each  trifling  thing  we  do, 
Goes  gossiping  around  among  the  folks, 
And  tells  our  misdemeanors  as  good  jokes. 

I've  not  the  least  protection  from  his  boldness  ; 

He  mocks  me  when  I  would  repel  with  coldness. 
Now  this  is  rather  more  than  I  can  bear : 
Even  sunshine  shall  not  enter  here  to  share 
My  home  and  hearthstone,  and  turn  traitor  there. 

I  would  like  shutters,  sir,  to  keep  him  out ; 
I  cannot  have  such  ruthless  folks  about. 
Now,  if  you  have  the  heart  to  tell  me  nay, 
The  worst  I  wish  you  is  some  summer's  day, 
When  suicidal  flies  fall  in  the  butter, 
Yielding  the  ghost  with  many  a  greasy  splutter : 

When    moths    grow    sick    of    daylight,    and    grown 

brave 

Seek  in  our  cup  of  tea  a  watery  grave ; 
When  one's  most  cool  ideas  seem  turned  to  oil, 
And  one's  afraid  to  keep  them  lest  they  spoil ; 
When  melting  moods  grow  rancid  in  the  heat, 
And  one  can  scarcely  keep  his  temper  sweet, — 
Then  do  I  hope,  if  you  resist  my  plea, 
You  may  be  doomed  to  pass  an  hour  with  me, 
And  in  this  furnace,  seven  times  heated,  learn 
How  readily  do  Blind  delinquents  burn  ! 


MY    WORLD. 


The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 

Can  make  a  heaven  of  hell,  a  hell  of  heaven. — MILTON. 


I    HAVE  a  world — a  world  that  is  mine  own  ; 
A    realm    that  teems  with    all    things  bright   and 

fair, 

That  blooms  or  perishes,  exists  or  dies, 
Is  sunlit,  shadowed,  peaceful  or  at  war, 
As  I  may  will.     It  is  a  changeful  world 
Whose  beauties  turn  to  terrors,  and  whose  joys 
Melt  into  gloom  as  meteors  fade  in  night. 
To-day,  the  silver  cascade's  sparkling  mirth 
With  the  swift  flash  of  gorgeous  bird-wings  joins  ; 
The  grass  is  green,  and  laughing  rivulets 
Under  the  weedy  banks  with  shadows  play  ; 
While  over  all  the  cloudless  heavens  hang 
Like  some  triumphal  arch,  beneath  whose  blue, 
In  chariot  of  gold,  with  flower-twined  wheels, 
The  Princess  Royal,  Youth,  rides  down  Life's  road 
Toward  the  Palace  of  Futurity. 
To-morrow,  all  things  bright  and  gay  have  fled  ; 
Stupendous  rocks  the  dark  skies  seem  to  bear 

33 


MY    WORLD.  39 

Upon  their  craggy  shoulders.     Where  the  Sun, 
Provider  prodigal  for  Earth,  his  bride, 
But  yester  lavished  splendor,  all  is  night 
And  wild  bewildering  tumult,  while  the  sea 
From  the  stern  shores  that  manacle  its  strength 
Preaches  its  solemn  sermons. 

Tis  my  will 

At  times  to  woo  the  spirit  of  the  storm, 
And  wait  his  coming  through  the  gates  of  cloud. 
The  howling  winds  his  lusty  heralds  are, 
Who  shriek  his  advent  over  moor  and  main ; 
While  through  their  clear,  asolian  trumpets  roll — 
The  breath  of  tempests  and  the  blasts  of  woe, 
Weaving  in  weird  yet  wondrous  harmony, 
Destruction's  battle-march.     Mantled  in  mists, 
His  angry  hands  of  noisy  thunders  full, 
The  livid  lightning  flashing  from  his  eyes, 
His  wrathful  brow  with  scowling  fury  black, 
The  Storm-king  comes — cloud-armies  at  his  back — 
A  veteran  host  whose  hoary  locks  have  waved 
In  Nature's  conflicts  since  creation's  birth. 
The  hills,  stern  in  their  resignation,  yield 
Their  brows,  sunbrowned  by  ages,  to  the  stroke 
Which  seeks  their  hearts.     The  valleys  sob,  the  rills 
Put  up  a  petulant  cry,  the  forest  kings 
Bow  down  their  lofty  heads,  rocks  crashing  fall, 
The  angered  mountains  veil  their  battled  fronts, 
The  billows  gnash  their  teeth  ;  confusion  dire 
Claps  her  jubilant  hands  and  Nature's  queen, 
Earth,  the  all-beautiful,  lifts  her  wet  eyes 
In  mute  appeal,  and  vanquished  lies  beneath 
Her  conqueror's  gaze. 


40  MY   WORLD. 

Again,  a-wearied  grown 

With  hearing  Nature's  harp  discordant  strung, 
I  turn  aside  ;  and  lo  !  the  sun  rides  forth 
Serene  in  splendor  through  unclouded  skies, 
And  like  a  royal  lover  proudly  folds 
The  sorrowing  earth  in  his  forgiving  arms, 
Rebukes  the  angry  seas,  and  woos  the  winds 
To  rest.     With  gentle  touch  he  fondly  lifts 
The  rose  which  fell  beneath  the  storm's  rough  heel, 
And  with  a  smile  he  dries  the  crushing  tears 
Out  of  the  lily's  overladen  heart. 
The  frailest  flower  joys  at  his  approach, 
And  lifts  its  head  to  meet  his  kind  caress. 
All  hail  to  thee,  supernal  king  of  light, 
Who  thus  at  once  a  universe  canst  sway, 
And  stoop  a  daisy's  little  face  to  kiss ! 

I  am  sole  ruler  in  my  world,  and  make 

It  calm  and  lovely,  terrible  and  wild, 

To  suit  my  mood.     I  dwell  therein  alone, 

Amid  the  hosts  of  things  inanimate, 

The  only  animate  one,  or  I  do  throng 

Its  ways  with  merry  feet  and  joyous  hearts, 

And  forms  all  grace  and  gayety,  which  float 

Like  zephyrs  to  my  arms,  and  offer  me 

The  smile  of  cordial  welcome. 


Souls  are  there, 

True  as  eternal  truth  ;  and  eyes  whose  light, 
Steady  as  vestal  fires,  illumes  my  life, 
And  hearts  whose  faithful  throbbings  echoes  are 
Of  footsteps  which  crossed  over  them  to  death. 


MT   WORLD.  41 

The  unforgotten  fill  familiar  nooks, 

And  still,  deep  natures,  calm  as  summer  lakes, 

Offer  Love's  fragile  bark  safe  anchorage. 

There  all  that's  noble  in  mankind  is  man's  ; 

And  woman's  womanliest  attributes 

Surround  her  nature  like  a  belt  of  stars. 

There  sweet-lipped  Sympathy  takes  up  the  cross 

Of  sobbing  Sorrow,  and  her  burden  shares. 

No  serpent  there  e'er  writhes  beneath  the  rose, 

No  love  forgets — no  friendships  fade  away. 

The  good,  the  true,  the  beautiful  are  there  ; 

The  triune  bright,  whose  mission  is  to  teach 

Earth,  after  all,  is  one  of  heaven's  gates. 

I  can  go  hence  once  more  among  the  world, 

Whose  hidden  rocks  had  wellnigh  wrecked  my  trust 

In  human  kind,  with  calm,  uplifted  brow, 

A  glad  forgetfulness  of  wrongs,  a  heart 

Rejoicing  to  forget  and  to  forgive, 

A  spirit  schooled  to  bear. 

Thus  do  I  live, 

A  dweller  on  the  earth,  yet  by  the  hand 
Of  Thought,  that  mighty  and  mysterious  Prince 
Of  the  fair  House  of  Life,  led  up  above 
It  and  its  woes  to  di'eam  my  dreams  and  sing 
My  songs  in  pensive  solitude. 

Whene'er 

The  outer  world  is  cruel  unto  me, 
When  friends  I've  loved  and  trusted  changeful  grow, 
Or  when  misfortune  lays  her  heavy  hand 
Upon  my  brow,  and  human  pangs  press  hard 


42  MY    WORLD. 

Against  my  human  heart,  I  hie  me  here, 

To  this  my  inner  world,  and  shutting  out 

All  that  may  cold  or  uncongenial  seem, 

I  kneel  me  down,  and  lifting  up  my  voice 

Broken  and  full  of  sobs  to  Him  who  rules 

All  rulers,  I  pour  out  my  griefs  and  lean 

With  all  my  woes  on  his  consoling  breast. 

Then  doth  my  world — that  world  whose  stilly  shore 

Shut  out  all  earthly  bleakness — glow  with  scenes 

Of  sacred  beauty,  as  we  see  the  walls 

Of  dim  and  shadowy  cathedrals  hung 

With  scriptural  scenes.     A  warm  and  tender  light, 

By  rosy  clouds  subdued,  illumes  my  soul ; 

And  like  an  organ  touched  by  reverent  hands 

My  heart  peals  anthems  ! 

Go  ye  who  have  endurec 

The  blight  of  change  and  sorrow  and  deceit 
Which  stains  the  outer  world — go  build  ye  up 
A  temple  fair,  an  inner  world  that  teems 
With  all  that's  pure  and  true  and  beautiful ; 
Where  at  the  foot  of  its  great  cross  thy  life 
May  kneel  and  show  its  wounds,  and,  healed,  arise 
There  will  ye  find  a  refuge  from  all  ills — 
A  balm  for  every  pain  ;   in  need,  enough  ; 
In  place  of  hatred,  love  ;  in  place  of  foes, 
Friends  constant  as  the  stars.     So  shalt  thou  find 
That  calm  and  all  transcendent  peace  which  comes 
Of  the  surrendering  of  earthly  things 
To  hold  unveiled  communion  with  thy  God ! 
And  thou  wilt  find  among  the  silent  paths 
Many  a  broken  altar  of  thy  life, 
Beside  whose  ruined  columns  thou  wilt  bend, 


Mr  WORLD.  43 

Not  mourning  or  aggrieved  to  see  it  thus, 
But  thankful  that  thou  didst  not  lean  too  long 
Upon  its  weakness.     Thou  wilt  sigh,  perhaps, 
The  thistle  and  the  clambering  brier  to  see 
Where  thou  hadst  planted  roses,  yet  thoult  feel 
That  thorns  make  surer  ladders  than  rose  leaves, 
With  which  to  scale  the  great  eternal  gates. 


KATY    DID. 

YEARS  ago  a  gentle  maiden, 
With  a  heart  of  love  and  truth} 
And  a  bosom  all  unladen 

With  the  sins  of  modern  youth, 
Gave  her  purest,  best  affection, 
Without  worldly-wise  reflection, 
But  with  hasty  heart-selection 
To  one  she  loved  too  blindly — 
Too  blindly  and  too  well. 

And  the  maiden's  mien  was  simple, 
Like  the  heart  within  her  breast — 

Heart  where  Truth  had  built  her  temple- 
Heart  where  Virtue's  wings  found  rest 

Katy  was  the  maiden's  name — 

Modest  name  untouched  by  shame, 

Till  her  winsome  lover  came, 

With  young  Love's  thrilling  whisper 
Beguiling  Katy's  ear. 

Oh  he  wooed  her  and  he  won  her, 
As  have  men  before  and  since  ; 

Spreading  luringly  before  her 
All  the  picture's  brightest  tints. 

44 


KATT  DID.  45 

Life  he  painted  well  and  fairly, 
Tempting  pencil  guiding  charily, 
And  when  he  besought  her  warily 
To  fly  with  him,  she  did,  she  did, 
Poor,  trusting  Katy  did. 

Far  from  home  and  those  who  loved  her, 

With  his  promises  so  fair, 
He  to  distant  scenes  removed  her ; 

Then  he  left  her  pining  there. 
Other  hearts  have  blindly  trusted  ; 
Other  love  has,  cankering,  rusted  ; 
But  no  mortal,  woe-encrusted, 

E'er  fell  a  fairer  ruin 
Than  hapless  Katy  did, 

With  a  woman's  adoration 

Katy  strove  to  hide  the  dart, 
And  with  blind  infatuation 

Pressed  it  deeper  in  her  heart  ; 
And  with  weary  feet  she  wandered, 
And  with  aching  brow  she  pondered 
On  the  hopes  that  she  had  squandered 

For  a  vision  and  a  falsehood  : 
Katy  did,  Katy  did. 

Back  to  scenes  of  early  gladness 

Katy's  heavy  footsteps  turned — 
Love  of  home,  with  all  her  sadness, 

In  her  bursting  heart  still  burned. 
But  no  form  sped  forth  to  meet  her, 
No  loved  lips  were  oped  to  greet  her — 
Oh,  no  human  flight  is  fleeter 


46  KATYDID. 

Than  that  which  flees  from  maidens 
Who  err  as  Katy  did. 

Man  may  smile  and  fawn  and  flatter — 

Do  the  wrong  so  well  he  can ; 
Still  the  world  approves,  no  matter — 

He  is  man,  all-potent  man — 
But  let  woman's  step  betoken 
That  the  slightest  line  is  broken 
Of  the  laws  the  world  has  spoken, 
She  finds  the  cold  contumely 
That  wretched  Katy  did. 

Years  o'er  Katy's  brow  did  linger 

Slowly,  sadly,  one  by  one — 
Time's  unerring,  tireless  finger 

Wrote  her  race  was  almost  run — 
When,  one  night,  while  stars  were  shining 
Midnight's  dusky  form  defining 
In  the  moon's  pale  arms  reclining, 

She  saw  a  sight  of  wonder — 
Heart-broken  Katy  did 

Lingering  by  the  babbling  fountain 

Where  so  often  Katy  dreamed 
Of  that  home  beside  the  mountain 

Where  her  sun  of  life  first  beamed, 
Katy  saw  soft  tresses  flowing 
Round  a  figure  bright  and  glowing, 
'While  enchantment  she  seemed  throwing 
About  poor  Katy  ever — 
Sad,  silent,  Katy  did. 


KATT  DID.  47 

Katy  felt  it  was  a  fairy, 

One  of  those  kind-hearted  sprites 
Who  are  drawn  to  those  a-weary 

Of  the  world's  accursing  blights. 
Then  the  mystic  wand  was  lifted, 
And  the  moonbeams  softly  drifted 
O'er  the  brow  of  the  heart-rifted 

Child  of  sin  and  child  of  sorrow — 
Woe-stricken  Katy  did. 

"  Mortal,"  said  the  fairy  being, 

"  See,  thine  earthly  task  is  o'er ! 
Soon  from  hence  wilt  thou  be  fleeing, 

Where  no  grief  can  visit  more. 
From  thy  grave  shall  spring  a  mourner 
Which,  from  every  leafy  corner, 
Maiden's  ear  shall  seek  to  warn  her 
Of  the  danger  of  confiding 
In  man,  as  Katy  did. 

"  See,  my  wand  its  garb  is  weaving — 
Garb  of  hue  which  will  not  fade, 
With  no  gorgeous  tints  relieving 
Its  translucent  emerald  shade. 
When  the  summer  leaves  are  falling, 
When  the  grave  seems  coldly  calling, 
When  all  mortal  hopes  are  palling, 
She'll  tek  the  world  what  Katy, 
Misguided  Katy  did. 

"  Dusky  hours  of  autumn  charming, 
It  shall  live  the  leaves  among ; 

4* 


4$  KATT  DID. 

And  the  hand  that  seeks  its  harming 

Shall  find  silence  where  was  song.* 
Over  all  the  broad  land  sweeping, 
Shall  thy  mourning  band  be  weeping, 
Singing  while  the  world  is  sleeping 
The  cruel  wrongs  of  Katy — 
Katy  did,  Katy  did." 

As  the  fairy  ceased  her  speaking, 

Lo  !  a  change  o'er  Katy  passed, 
And  to  earth's  emmouldering  keeping. 

Sank  her  weary  form  at  last. 
Then  arose  a  legion,  mourning 
Shrub  and  leafy  tree  adorning, 
With  their  voice  of  mystic  warning, 

Monotonously  chanting, 
"  Katy  did,  Katy  did." 

When  autumnal  nights  are  coming, 

When  the  drowsy  earth  is  still, 
Maidens  listen  for  the  humming — 

Humming  rising  o'er  the  hill, 
Of  the  green  band  swiftly  winging 
To  the  dewy  boughs,  where  swinging 
They  may  chime  their  choral  singing, 

To  tell  what  hapless  Katy, 
Katy  did,  Katy  did. 

*  The  Katydid  becomes  silent  when  the  bough  or  tree  is  touched 
on  which  it  chirps  its  busy  song. 


BRING    ME    NO    CAPTIVE    PETS. 

BRING  me  no  captive  pets !     Give  back  the  deer 
Its  native  wilds  and  its  forest  shade, 
The  coolness  soft  of  the  shadowed  glade, 
The  far  free  hills  where  its  home  is  made, 
And  the  flying  herd  which  it  misseth  here. 

Ay,  send  him  forth  where  waving  branches  spread 
Their  quivering  leaves  above  his  antlered  head, 
Where  the  fresh  streamlet  glides  to  meet  the  sea  ; 
Bid  him  go  there  and  feel  that  he  is  free ! 

Bring  me  no  captive  pets !     Yon  prisoned  bird- 
Pines  for  a  flight  through  the  fresh  free  air, 
The  cozy  nest  with  its  mate  to  share, 
The  bending  boughs  in  the  valley  fair, 

And  the  dancing  waves,  by  the  zephyrs  stirred. 
Go  forth  sweet  bird,  thy  fetters  are  a  dream, 
The  lilies  bend  above  thy  native  stream  ; 
Thy  mate,  in  sadness,  waiteth  there  for  thee — 
Go  seek  her  side  and  tell  her  thou  art  free ! 

Bring  me  no  captive  pets  !     The  bright  gazelle 
Weareth,  in  sorrow,  his  gilded  chain  ; 
He  pants  for  the  distant  hills  again, 
The  heathery  down  and  the  spreading  plain, 

And  the  gushing  spring  of  the  mountain  dell. 

5  D  49 


50  BRING   ME  NO    CAPTIVE  PETS. 

Unbind  his  chain  ;  although  its  links  be  bright, 
Its  golden  glitter  bears  a  bitter  blight ; 
Forth  to  the  far-off  forest  bid  him  flee, 
With  each  glad  footfall  shouting  he  is  free ! 

Bring  me  no  captive  pets !     Yon  cooing  dove 
Folds  in  its  prison  its  docile  wing 
A  suffering,  helpless,  lonely  thing ; 
Its  mute  heart  yearning  in  vain  to  spring 

Once  more  to  the  feathered  flocks  of  its  love. 
Bid  it  away  !     Bid  it  go  seek  the  home 
Where  loved  ones  linger  for  the  loved  to  come, 
And  may  each  pulse  as  it  speeds  onward  be 
A  thrilling  throb  that  whispers  it  is  free  ! 

Bring  me  no  captive  pets !     The  skies  above, 
The  stars  that  watch  o'er  the  bounding  seas, 
The  earth  with  its  wealth  of  bloom  and  breeze, 
The  birds  that  sing  in  the  tall  green  trees, 

Are  treasures  enough  for  my  heart  to  love. 

Chains,  though  they  gilded  be,  still,  still  are  chains 
The  lightest  shackles  will  leave  cruel  stains  : 
Enough  is  ours  ;  alas  !  why  must  we  see 
Fetters  on  aught  that  God  created  free.? 


NOVEMBER. 


AS  I  sat  by  my  silent  hearthstone,  alone, 
Alone, 

Watching  a  dying  ember, 
I  was  startled  to  hear  a  deep  sigh  on  the  gale, 
And  I  said,  Whence  cometh  that  desolate  wail? 
A  voice  answered,  "  Over  the  lips  so  pale 

Of  November." 


I  shuddered  that  dreary  name  to  hear 

So  near ; 

Closer  I  drew  the  ember  ; 

Triumphant  had  Summer  till  now  held  her  reign — 
September  beneath  her  bright  banner  lay  slain, 
October  had  knelt  at  her  feet  on  the  plain, 
But  ne'er  might  she  hope  the  victory  to  gain 

O'er  November. 


Through  all  the  dark  hours,  till  night  went  by, 

Did  I 

That  doleful  sigh  remember  ; 
Lo !  Summer  was  dead  when  the  gray  morning  came, 

51 


52  NOVEMBER. 

And  a  voice  which  I  shuddered  to  know  was  the  same, 
Said,  "  I  am  chief  mourner  for  Summer  ;  my  name 

Is  November !" 


Oh  wildly  wept  Nature  over  the  clay 

Which  lay 

Cold  as  the  brow  of  December  ; 
And  with  mournful  measure  murmured  the  rills, 
And  over  the  earth  blew  the  blast  that  chills, 
While  the  old  artist,  Autumn,  out  on  the  hills, 

Painted  November ! 


Ah,  carefully  now  have  I  closed  my  door ; 

No  more 

Do  I  muse  over  an  ember  ; 
I  watch  from  my  windows  with  wakeful  eyes, 
For  the  Season's  pale  sexton,  old  Winter,  to  rise, 
And  in  shroud  of  snow  and  a  coffin  of  ice, 

Bury  November. 


FIDELITAS. 

COUCHED  on  a  bloomy  bank  I  lay, 
Half  dreaming,  by  the  lapsing  tide  ; 
A  form  half  angel  and  half  fay 
I  saw  float  downward  to  my  side. 

Her  wings  ethereal  fanned  my  face, 
As  down  she  sank  upon  her  knees  ; 

Her  form,  full  of  a  dainty  grace, 

Swayed  like  a  blossom  in  the  breeze. 

Her  locks,  rich  in  that  tint  of  bronze 
That's  seen  in  summer's  sundown  skies, 

Clustered  like  holy-hearted  nuns, 
To  hide  her  bosom  from  my  eyes. 

Her  lips  were  like  a  folded  bud, 
And  blossomed  sweetly  into  smiles, 

While  her  blue  eyes  poured  forth  a  flood 
Of  radiance  like  twin  starry  isles. 

Entranced  I  lay — enraptured  gazed — 
The  bloomy  bank,  the  lapsing  tide, 

All  else  forgot,  as,  half  amazed, 
I  watched  the  wonder  at  my  side. 

5*  53 


54  FIDELITAS. 

"  Born  of  the  wave  art  thou  ?"  I  said, 

"  Or  cam'st  thou  down  from  yon  bright  star 
Whose  ray  a  shining  path  has  laid 
O'er  twilight's  fields  to  the  afar? 

"  Or  art  the  fair  embodied  dream 

Of  some  lone  poet  of  the  earth, 
Which,  formed  to  glorify  his  theme, 
Has  fled  the  brain  that  gave  it  birth  ? 

"  Or  art  a  prisoned  secret  fled 

Some  heart-cell,  while  the  traitor  Sleep, 
Drunk  at  the  Feast  of  Dreams,  betrayed 
The  sacred  charge  he  had  to  keep  ? 

"  Or  faithful  Love,  that  on  life's  mai'ch 

Hath  wrong  and  chill  and  blight  withstood  ? 
The  jeweled  keystone  of  the  arch 
That  spans  perfected  womanhood  ?" 

While  yet  I  spake,  she  seemed  to  grow 
Less  and  more  less  in  every  part, 

Till  as  she  knelt  beside  me,  lo  ! 

She  was  not  higher  than  my  heart. 

Then  came  her  voice — a  tone  between 
The  fall  of  brook,  the  note  of  bird, 

The  sweetest  thing  my  ear  had  e'en 
In  all  its  listening  lifetime  heard. 

"  I  am  not  aught  thou'st  named,"  she  said  ; 

"  No  wanderer  from  the  starry  side, 
No  secret  from  its  prison  sped, 
No  deathless  love  personified. 


FIDELITAS.  55 

"  I  am  a  little  foundling  Fay — 

The  pet  of  our  good  Fairy  Queen — 
Bathed  in  a  dew-drop  every  day, " 
And  lodged  at  night  in  tent  of  green. 

"  She  found  me  many  a  day  ago 

Dying  beside  a  daisy  dead, 
Stretched  out  beneath  a  flake  of  snow 
That  covered  me  from  feet  to  head. 

"  I  lived,  and  kind  Titania  claims 

My  life-rewards  her  every  care, 
And  when  some  goodly  deed  she  names, 
I'm  chosen  her  behest  to  bear. 

"  I  carry  tears  to  help  dissolve 

The  pangs  of  dry-eyed  Misery's  pain  ; 
I  make  the  lamps  of  hope  revolve 
Along  the  shores  of  life  again. 

"  I  bear  to  sleeping  babes  the  smile 

The  youthful  mother  loves  to  see  ; 
The  broken-hearted  I  beguile 
With  gleams  of  golden  memory. 

"  I  speak  from  empty  nooks — from  chords 
Some  absent  hand  has  loved  to  touch ; 
From  withered  flowers — forgotten  words — 
The  silent  things  that  say  so  much  ! 

"  Now  here  my  good  queen  bids  me  stray 

Among  the  bloom  beside  the  wave, 
And  offer  you  whate'er  you  may 

Most,  from  her  store  of  blessings,  crave." 


56  FIDELITAS. 

Then,  smiling  tenderly,  she  drew 

From  out  her  bosom,  ringlet-shaded, 

A  little  lock  of  hair,  I  knew 

My  young  love's  gentle  hands  had  braided. 

"  Wilt  have  thy  youth  ?     I  stayed  its  flight, 

As  swift  it  sped  toward  the  vast 
Unfathomed  depths  of  wrong  and  right 
Regretful  mortals  call  the  past ! 

"  'Tis  thine — its  fields  all  unexplored, 

Its  hopes,  its  dreams  ;  yet  calmly  choose 
Between  its  doubtful  joys  restored 
And  the  experience  thou  must  lose  !" 

I  answered  :  "  Tempt  me  not — so  saith 
My  heart  which  youth  can  claim  no  more 

Till  life  hath  crossed  the  bridge  called  death, 
'Twixt  time  and  the  eternal  shore  !" 

"  Youth  fades,"  she  said,  as  down  I  pressed 
Upon  the  braid  one  burning  kiss, 

"  And  all  it  leaves  as  dearest,  best, 
Is  oft  some  trifle  such  as  this  ; 

"  So  take  the  hair — it  may  ensure 

Thy  heart  from  some  ensoiling  stain  ; 
'Tis  well  to  hold  some  relic  pure 
Of  years  that  come  not  back  again ; 

"  And  name  some  gift — is't  pride  of  place, 

Or  wealth's  emoluments  you  crave — 
Fame,  honor,  aught  that  life  can  grace 
In  its  slow  journey  to  the  grave  ?" 


FIDELITAS.  57 

I  mused  :  "  Wealth?  nay,  not  that  I  ask  ; 

So  often  riches  make  one  poor, 
And  life  beneath  wealth's  golden  mask 

Goes  begging  love  from  door  to  door. 

"  Honors  and  fame?     Nay,  'twere  to  see 

Hatreds  grow  thick  about  my  feet, 
And  crops  of  baleful  jealousy 
Make  all  existence  a  defeat." 

She  said,  "  Take  then  prolonged  years, 

Beyond  life's  ordinary  span, 
With  all  the  ease  that  old  age  cheers 

And  homage  from  thy  fellow-man. 

"  Thine  aged  steps  I'll  shield  from  strife, 

Vexatious  troubles  keep  at  bay — 
Those  petty  ills  that  peck  at  life 
As  hungry  jackdaws  peck  at  prey." 

"  Nay  !  past  the  verge  of  usefulness 

What  verdure  can  existence  crown  ? 
Whilst  living  I  may  others  bless — 
Not  longer  would  I  linger  on. 

"  Nor  do  I  tremble  as  I  note 

The  parting  of  life's  slender  thread  ; 
We  are  but  candles  Death  snuffs  out 
When  it  is  time  to  go  to  bed. 

"  And  what  though  round  us  may  be  cast 
That  care  with  tenderest  kindness  rife, 
Despite  it  all,  we  die  at  last 

Of  that  most  strange  disease  called  Life. 


FIDELITAS. 

So  none  of  these ;  and  since  my  birth 
Passed  by  of  fairy  gift  denied, 

I  claim  not  for  my  days  on  earth 
Aught  for  my  vanity  or  pride. 

Yet,  since  to  give,  'tis  granted  thee 

Aught  known  to  earthly  nomenclature- 
One  boon  I  ask — restore  to  me 
My  olden  faith  in  human  nature. 

Root  from  my  heart  its  growth  of  rue, 
Let  simple  trust  my  spirit  cheer ; 

Let  me  believe  all  love  is  true, 

And  every  new-found  friend  sincere." 

Rash  mortal !"  so  the  fairy  said — 
"  It  is  thy  ruin  thou'dst  invoke  ;" 

Then,  as  in  grief,  she  bent  her  head, 
And  seemed  to  vanish — I  awoke. 


SUNRISE. 

A  TINT  of  red  in  the  far  east — a  gleam 
Of  gold  upon  the  hills !     Upon  the  sea 
A  rosy  tinge,  as  if  the  soft  waves  blushed 
At  their  oft-whispered  farewells  to  the  night. 
From  gorge,  and  glen,  and  cool  green  valley  floats 
A  pearly  mist — earth's  grateful  incense  sent 
Upward  to  Him  who  said,  "  Let  there  be  light." 

Down  in  the  rose's  ruby  heart,  and  deep 
In  the  pure  lily's  chalice  lies  the  dew — 
That  holy  water  gathered  by  the  hand 
Of  Nature  to  baptize  the  new-born  day. 

The  balmy  groves  quiver  with  tuneful  life, 

The  silent  blossoms  bend  in  fragrant  prayer. 

Earth   slowly   smiles,   and    through    the   mists   which 

veiled 

Her  star- watched  slumbers,  lifts  her  face  like  one 
Who,  half  reluctant,  wakes  from  dewy  dreams, 
And  scatters  from  her  hesitating  brow 
The  rosy  crown  of  sleep. 

59 


60  SUNRISE. 

Lo  !  in  the  east 

Now  gleam  the  golden  lances  of  the  hours  ; 
Gently  they  put  aside  Night's  sable  veil ; 
The  expectant  skies  glow  with  a  deeper  flush  ; 
The  waiting  waters  throb  like  welcoming  hearts  : 
The  monarch  comes ;  earth  shouts,  the  darkness  flies, 
And  Dawn  lies  fainting  in  the  arms  of  Day. 


GOD    BLESS    YOU! 
AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED  TO  A.  H.  S. 

GOD  bless  you — in  three  words  a  prayer, 
Exalted,  fond,  devout,  sincere — 
With  health  and  strength 
And  days  of  length, 
With  joys  of  youth, 
With  lips  of  truth, 
With  heart  that  nobly  beats  to  do 
As  you'd  have  others  do  to  you, 
God  bless  you  ! 

God  bless  you  on  the  land  or  sea, 
Where'er  a  wanderer  you  may  be — 
With  days  of  peace, 
With  wealth's  increase ; 

With  life  that  shames 

Degenerate  aims ; 
With  heart  kept  holy  in  His  sight, 
With  hand  that's  brave  to  do  the  right — 

God  bless  you  ! 
6  61 


62  GOD  BLESS    YOU! 

God  bless  you,  as  your  life  descends 
Time's  hillsides  steep,  with  faithful  friends ; 
With  lot  well  cast, 
With  faith  steadfast ; 
With  will  to  bless 
Those  favored  less ; 

With  strength  to  reach  yon  realm  of  bliss — 
Better  and  brighter  far  than  this — 
God  bless  you ! 


MALVINA. 

I  NEVER  cross  the  well-known  portal 
Where  erst  thy  glance  of  love  met  mine 
But  winging  back  from  spheres  immortal, 
Thy  radiant  young  face  seems  to  shine. 

I  seem  to  hear  thy  voice  in  greeting, 
To  feel  thy  soft  hand  clasping  mine ; 

I  seem  to  hear  thy  lips  repeating 

The  welcomes  of  the  old  "  lang  syne." 

Thy  books  still  keep  their  olden  places, 
The  flowers  that  loved  thy  girlish  care 

Toward  the  sunlight  lift  their  faces, 
And  seem  to  ask  if  thou  art  there. 

There  are  thy  dainty  vase  and  volume, 
Thy  favorite  nook  and  vacant  chair  ; 

Thy  bird-cage  by  the  ivied  column, 
The  pathway  to  thy  place  of  prayer ! 

Each  toy  thy  girlish  fancy  treasured 
For  thy  dear  sake  is  cherished  still ; 

And  though  the  tomb  thy  form  hath  measured, 
Thy  hallowed  home  it  yet  doth  fill. 


64  MA  L  VINA. 

Thy  voice  in  every  room  seems  ringing, 

Thy  footsteps  echo  in  each  hall, 
And  thine  own  smile  to  life  seems  springing 

Forth  from  thy  portrait  on  the  wall. 

Call  ye  this  death  ?     Nay  ;   though  thy  brightness 

Lost  may  be,  and  beauty  fled, 
Though  hushed  thy  young  heart's  happy  lightness, 

And  dumb  thy  lips,  thou  art  not  dead ! 

Thou  art  not  dead  ;  nay,  though  the  preacher 

"  Dust  unto  dust,"  so  truly  saith, 
There  is  a  higher,  holier  Teacher 

Saying,  "  Tis  slumber  and  not  death." 


THE    BABY. 

SHE  is  the  blithest,  brightest  bird, 
The  sweetest,  winsomest  little  fay, 
That  e'er  a  loveless  bosom  stirred 
To  own  affection's  potent  sway. 

Her  locks  are  sunshine  softly  curled 
Above  a  brow  they  love  to  kiss ; 

Her  eyes,  twin  stars  from  other  world, 
Wandering  in  wonder  over  this. 

Her  cheeks  are  ruddy,  sweet  and  fair, 
Where  dimples  play  at  hide-and-seek  ; 

Her  lips  bright  shores  of  gladness,  where 
Rejoicing  waves  of  laughter  break. 

For  home  she's  one  continual  song — 

A  sunny  dispellant  of  care  ; 
A  star,  a  joy  where  troubles  throng ; 

To  earth  a  heaven — to  heaven  a  prayer. 

6*  E  65 


TO    AN    OLD    PORTFOLIO. 

TO-DAY  I  broke  the  clasp — the  key  was  gone — 
Lost  years  ago,  with  hopes  and  pleasures  known  ; 
When  friendships  sat  so  thickly  on  life's  brim 
I  thought  to  miss  none  that  o'erflowed  the  rim ; 
When  glowed  the  wine  and  foamed  life's  ruddy  cup, 
'Twas  then  I  locked  this  old  portfolio  up. 

To-day  I  opened  it — 'twas  like  the  gloom 

Which  bursts  from  out  the  long-unopened  tomb, 

Where  dust  and  ashes  but  remain  to  tell 

That  here  we  wept  o'er  what  we  loved  too  well : 

Relics  of  dead  or  dear  ones  living  yet — 

Of  friends  forgot,  or  whom  we  would  forget. 

Here  were  old  letters  stained  and  dim  with  age, 
Some  marked  with  teardrops  upon  every  page  ; 
Some  gay  and  graceful  as  wood-flowers  in  June, 
Some  dark  with  clouds  which  gathered   ere  life's  noon. 
All  breathe  of  loves  which  on  youth's  altar  lay — 
All  tell  of  loves  for  ever  passed  away. 

Here  were  sweet  songs — friendship's  devoted  lays, 
Ringing  reminders  of  departed  days, 
66 


TO  AN  OLD    PORTFOLIO.  67 

Stilled  are  the  hearts  that  to  their  music  beat, 
Silent  the  tones  that  chimed  their  cadence  sweet : 
The  earnest  souls  that  tuned  them  with  the  just, 
The  loving  lips  that  sang  them  turned  to  dust ! 

Here  are  some  flowers  tied  up  with  ribbons  blue, 

The  roses  withered,  ribbons  mouldering  too ; 

And  at  my  touch  they  crumbled  into  dust, 

Like  earthly  hopes  wherein  we've  placed  our  trust. 

There  was  no  record  of  the  giver's  name, 

And  treacherous  memory  told  not  whence  they  came. 

Friendships  and  flowers  and  hopes  of  early  days, 
All,  all  have  faded  from  my  yearning  gaze  ! 
In  vain  I  weep,  deplore  them — all  in  vain  ; 
The  Past  yields  up  our  loved  ones  not  again. 
Of  mine  there's  but  a  memory  and  a  tear, 
Or  links,  such  as  this  old  portfolio  here. 

Alone  I'm  left  to  turn  these  treasures  o'er, 
Pieces  of  wreck  cast  up  on  Time's  cold  shore — 
Hopes  that  sailed  in  them,  joys  that  bounded  on, 
Lie  buried  in  the  ocean  of  Bygone. 
Of  all  that  formed  the  young  and  joyous  train, 
My  blighted  heart  and  hopes  alone  remain. 

Who  will  he  be  that  in  some  time  to  come, 
When  this  poor  heart  and  these  my  lips  are  dumb, 
Will  sit  him  down  o'er  pages  I  have  writ, 
By  lamps  of  love  my  burning  brain  hath  lit, 
To  read  my  records,  mixed  with  memory's  lees, 
And  feel  o'er  them  what  I  now  feel  o'er  these? 


SOMEBODY. 

A  LITTLE  bit  of  mystery  I  try  to  solve  in  vain — 
Like   some   tormenting   problem    again   and   yet 
again  ; 
In  day-time  and  in  night-time  doth  its  hidden  meaning 

vex  me, 

Compelling  me  to  love  the  more  the  more  it  doth  per- 
plex me. 

Entranced  I  hear  my  startled  heart  beat  out  its  quick 

alarms, 
Swift  would    I    fly — each    avenue    is    sentried   by   her 

charms ; 
Like  some  enchanted  circle,  round  my  daily  path  they 

spread  ; 
Across  the  mystic  brink  of  flowers  I  do  not  seek  to 

tread. 

With  smiles  for  me  and  frowns  for  me,  beguiling  and 

misleading — 

Sad  for  to-day,  to-morrow  gay,  advancing  and  receding  : 
Olden  story  ne'er  embodied  more  bewitching,  'wildering 

doubt — 
No  name  I  give  the  mystery  ;  dear  reader,  find  it  out. 

68 


A    MEMORY. 

SOFTLY  o'er  my  senses  stealing, 
Gliding  like  deep  waves  of  feeling 
O'er  my  soul, 

Comes  a  dream  that  sparkles  brightly 
As  the  tears  that  tinkle  lightly 
Where  they  roll. 

Long  ago,  when  I  was  roving 
With  a  heart  attuned  to  loving 

Faithfully, 

Ere  I  knew  the  stain  that  sweepeth 
Over  souls  the  wide  world  keepeth 

Chained  yet  free — 

I  beheld  a  lovely  maiden, 
With  a  spirit  lightly  laden, 

Full  of  joy: 

In  her  cheeks  bright  blushes  tingling, 
With  her  mirth  a  music  mingling, 

Sans  alloy. 

Hers  a  brow  like  summer  morning, 
With  the  floating  clouds  adorning 


70  A    MEMORT. 

Its  sweet  light ; 

Hers  the  glances  like  the  gleaming 
Of  the  early  sunshine,  beaming 
Mildly  bright. 


Hers  the  lips  like  dewy  roses, 
When  the  shade  of  evening  closes 

Daylight's  doors ; 

Hers  a  breath  like  fragrant  clover, 
When  the  summer  winds  sweep  over 

Balmy  moors. 

Hers  a  cheek  carnation-tinted, 
And  with  dazzling  dimples  dinted  ; 

While  a  smile 

Round  her  rosy  mouth  was  playing, 
Peeping  through  the  ringlets  straying, 

All  the  while. 

Oh,  I  loved  her  with  a  madness 
Which  my  nature's  truest  gladness 

Has  undone  ! 

Trustingly  my  heart  believed  her, 
Never  word  or  deed  deceived  her — 

Never  one. 

Youth  flew  forward,  fondly  dreaming  ; 
True  was  every  outward  seeming, 

Till  one  day 

Sorrow  his  light  course  arrested, 
Met  him  boldly  and  broad-breasted 
On  his  way. 


A   MEMORY. 

Then  I  learned,  all  broken-hearted, 
That  the  glorious  links  were  parted 

Of  our  love  ; 

And  I  strove  with  bitter  sadness 
To  forget  my  fleeted  gladness — 

Madly  strove. 

Years  have  passed  since  last  I  met  her — 
Passed  in  striving  to  forget  her, 

All  in  vain. 

Even  now  I  would  believe  her, 
And  with  welcoming  arms  receive  her 

Once  again. 

Oh  when  once  we  yield  to  loving, 
To  that  power  so  sweetly  moving, 

And  so  strange, 

We  may  woo  the  world's  caressing, 
We  may  win  its  worthless  blessing, 

But  not  change  ; 

For  when  once  the  chain  has  bound  ua\ 
When  for  once  those  links  are  round  us, 

We  in  vain 

May  the  fetters  seek  to  sever  ; 
They  will  fester  there  for  ever 

In  sweet  pain. 


LINES    TO    CORA. 

THEY  will  never  come  back,  the  bright  beautiful 
days, 

The  gladdening  days  of  the  glorious  spring 
With  its  blossoming  crocus  and  jessamine  sprays 

And    its  verdure    that   comes   o'er  the    land    like  a 

king ; 

They  are  fleeing  for  ever ;  the  freshness  and  bloom 
Of  these  sun-lighted  days  of  the  years  of  thy  life, 
Like  dreams  dreamt  on  pillows  of  precious  perfume 
They  fade  ere  thou  knowest  with  what  glory  they're 
rife 

But  say  you  the  summer  is  coming  anon, 

Its  gardens  all  flush  with  ripe  beauty  and  splendor, 
With  its  harmonies  grander  than  those  that  are  gone, 

With  its  sunshine  more  brilliant,  its  shadows  more 

tender  ? 
Dost  thou  say  that  its  voices  are  richer  in  meaning, 

The  fruit  that  is  mellow  more  luscious  than  bloom, 
The  harvest  that's  golden  and  ripe  for  the  gleaning 

Worth  all  of  the  spring's  evanescent  perfume? 


LINES    TO    CORA.  73 

Ah !  love — 'tis  the  seed  sown  in  spring-time  that  grows 

To  spangle  with  blossoms  the  summer's  green  glade  ; 
'Tis  the  sapling  of  spring  whose  maturity  throws 

Over  summer's  hot  pulses  the  cool  cloak  of  shade  ; 
And  the  harvest  that's  golden,  the  fruit  that  is  red, 

And  the  gushes  of  song  on  the  summer  day's  track, 
Are  the  precious  results  of  a  spring  that  has  sped, 

Which  will  never  come  back — which  will  never  come 
back. 

Say'st  thou  autumn  will   come  when  the    summer  is 
gone, 

With  the  purple  and  gold  that  embroider  its  glory, 
And  the  song  of  the  vintager  greeting  the  dawn, 

While  with  blood  of  the  grape  the  winepress  is  gory  ? 
Dost  thou  say  that  the  full-handed  autumn  can  tender 

Such  riches  as  spring-time  nor  summer  e'er  knew, 
While  the  gorgeous  skies  and  the  forests  of  splendor 

Are  rarer  than  roses  and  richer  than  dew  ? 

Remember  that  spring  and  its  sunny  caress, 

Its  welcoming  warmth  and  its  fostering  mould, 
Is  the  source  of  all  this  that  thy  autumn  can  bless, 

Its  clusters  of  purple,  its  harvests  of  gold  ! 
For  the  stalk  yielding  grain  and  the  grape  yielding  wine, 

And  the  fruit-laden  orchards  old  autumn  must  lack, 
Were  it  not  for  the  tendrils  of  spring's  early  vine 

And  the  seeds  of  a  season  that  never  comes  back. 

Then  gather  now,  darling,  the  delicate  bloom 
Of  the  crocus  and  jasmine  and  clambering  rose ; 

Extract  from  their  petals  the  precious  perfume, 
Thy  life  to  embalm  as  it  draws  to  a  close ; 

7 


74  LINES    TO    CORA. 

Scatter  seeds  while  the  days  of  thy  years  are  but  few, 
Broadcast  upon  intellect's  nourishing  mould, 

That  the  sunshine  of  youth  and  its  fostering  dew 
May  yield  thee  a  harvest  of  beauty  untold. 

For  the  spring-time  of  youth  quickly  fadeth  away 

And  the  swift  summers  perish  on  time's  sterile  shore  ; 
All  the  autumn's  rich  glory  fast  falls  to  decay 

And  winter's  chill  hillsides  are  ours — nothing  more. 
But  if  in  the  seed-time  thou'st  planted  aright, 

For  each  season  of  life  shall  some  blessing  arise, 
Till  the  Spring-time  Eternal  shall  bloom  on  thy  sight, 

And   thy   wandering    feet   roam   the   star-sprinkled 
skies. 


THE    SLAUGHTERED    CRANE. 

'r  I  "*WAS  summer,  and  the  noonday  sun  shone  down 

_L     With  burning  fervor  on  the  land  and  sea  ; 
The  wandering  winds  had  sung  themselves  to  sleep, 
And  hid  their  folded  pinions  in  the  haunts 
Which  no  man  knows.     The  clouds  lay  furled  away 
Like  useless  sails  upon  a  bark  becalmed  ; 
And  not  a  shadow  crossed  the  blazing  sky, 
Which  spread  itself  unbrokenly  away, 
One  boundless  breadth,  monotonously  blue. 
There  was  no  hum  of  life  in  grassy  depths, 
The  cheery  chirr  of  grasshopper  was  hushed, 
The  butterfly  hung  idle  on  the  rose, 
And  insects  slumbered  in  the  sleepy  flowers. 
The  pasturing  herds  their  fragrant  food  resigned, 
And  sought  the  sluggish  pools  or  cooling  shade, 
While  woolly  flocks  laid  down  their  fleecy  forms 
In  drowsy  rest  beneath  widespreading  trees. 
There  was  a  weighty  silence  in  the  air — 
A  hush  that  awed,  a  quiet  that  oppressed. 
Not  even  a  steepled  bell  swung  out  its  tones 
To  break  the  stillness  of  the  Sabbath  noon  ; 
And  Nature,  like  the  olden  Magi,  bowed 
In  prostrate  worship  to  her  god,  the  sun. 


76  THE   SLAUGHTERED    CRANE. 

Parching  with  thirst,  a  scorned  and  lonely  bird 

Deep  in  the  forest  shadows  songless  sat. 

No  gentle  gale  his  burning  bosom  cooled, 

No  scented  breeze  beguiled  his  idle  wings. 

The  very  denseness  of  the  leafy  shade 

Shut  out  the  air  for  which  he  drooped  and  pined. 

He  stretched  his  slender  neck  and  gazed  abroad : 

He  saw  bright  fields  of  grain  and  glassy  streams, 

The  spicy  swamp,  the  clover-sprinkled  plain, 

And,  tempted  by  their  peaceful  loveliness, 

He  poised  himself,  then  flapped  his  heavy  wings, 

And  rising  lazily  upon  the  air, 

Soared  from  the  wooded  depths  away,  away. 

His  flight  was  far,  and  for  his  weaned  wing 

He  sought  at  last  some  quiet  resting-place. 

An  elm  stood  near  which  reared  its  branches  high 

And  o'er  the  stream  which  slumbered  at  its  base 

Cast  a  refreshing  shade.     With  one  swift  swoop 

He  sank  among  the  thick  inviting  leaves, 

And  folded  there  his  wings.     The  uncouth  bird, 

With  harsh,  discordant  note  and  plumage  dull, 

In  his  own  ugliness  secured  from  harm, 

Contented  felt,  and  with  confiding  trust 

Stroked    his    coarse    plumes,    or   plucked   with     busy 

beak 

His  ruffled  pinions,  while  with  yearning  note 
He  wooed  his  mate  to  follow  him. 

Alas ! 

Is  earth  so  full  of  guilt  there  is  no  room 
For  innocence  to  sleep  unguarded  there  ? 
Is  Wrong  so  ready  and  is  Might  so  strong 
That  Peace  must  always  rest  upon  her  arms  ? 


THE   SLAUGHTERED    CRANE.  77 

A  shadow,  human  in  its  shape,  swept  o'er 
The  steely  mirror  of  the  silent  stream  ; 
A  cautious  step  crept  o'er  the  burning  sand, 
A  searching  eye  the  lonely  bird  descried  ; 
Then,  swift  as  thought,  the  deadly  rifle  ball 
Sped  through  the  Sabbath  sunshine  to  its  grave 
In  that  poor  heart ! 

With  one  wild  cry  of  woe, 

Which  seemed  to  call  on  Heaven  to  note  the  deed, 
The  doomed  bird  fluttered  to  the  ground  and  died  ! 
With  trembling  wing  back  to  the  distant  wood 
Swift  sped  his  widowed  mate.    The  wild  green  hills, 
Her  only  sympathizers,  sent  her  cries 
Re-echoed  from  their  hardy  hearts,  while  far, 
Through  dark  ravines  and  caverns  cold,  where  clung 
The  deadly  nightshade  and  the  hissing  snake, 
The  rattling  echo  of  the  merciless  shot 
Crept,  like  a  murderer,  away  and  hid  ! 


Ye  shall  no  murder  do" — "  Thou  shalt  not  kill !" 

Tell  us,  ye  angels  who  the  records  keep 

Of  right  and  wi'ong,  the  meaning  of  these  words? 

Is  not  life,  life  ?     Are  brain  and  heart-throb,  love, 

Ambition,  hope,  grief's  weight  and  joy's  keen  thrill, 

Not  life  in  creatures  dumb,  but  life  in  kings? 

If  to  take  life  be  not  to  kill,  then  why 

To  slaughter  tyrants  is  it  to  murder  do  ? 

Vouchsafe,  ye  guardians  who  the  secrets  hold 

Of  heaven  and  earth  in  your  mysterious  hands, 

To  once  define  that  undiscovered  line 

Where  righteous  justice  ends  and  crime  begins. 


78  THE   SLAUGHTERED    CRANE. 

What  worth  was  that  dead  bird  to  him  who  drew 

The  red  blood  from  its  palpitating  heart? 

What  prize  in  those  gray  shattered  pinions  lay? 

What  gain  that  blood-stained  beak  which  bit  the  dust 

To  him  who  laid  it  low?     No  hungered  lips 

Had  plead  for  feathered  prey  ;  no  famished  frame 

Could  feed  its  human  life  on  this  foul  flesh  ; 

No  victim  science  claimed  like  this :  the  shelves 

Of  curious  cabinets  would  but  have  scorned 

To  add  to  far-found  treasures  such  a  thing ! 

The  very  food  which  gave  its  homely  form 

Fuel  to  keep  alive  its  vital  flame, 

From  wormy  wood  or  miry  morass  plucked, 

Made  it  a  worthless  offering  to  lay 

Upon  the  dainty  shrine  of  appetite. 

If  justice  sees  in  cruelty  no  crime, 

Then  be  destruction's  wanton  heel  unbruised  ! 

Why  take  away  with  thoughtless  stroke  the  life 
Thou  canst  not  give  again?     If  'tis  thy  right 
To  kill,  'tis  easily  done  ;  but  though  thy  hand 
May  mountains  move  and  valleys  turn  to  hills, 
Or  shackle  seas  or  bridge  a  universe, 
Thou  canst  not  life  bestow  upon  a  worm. 
Though  humble  be  the  harmless  thing  that  crawls 
Confiding  to  thy  feet,  why  crush  it  out  ? 
Because  its  state  seems  lowly  in  thy  sight 
Or  its  existence  worthless,  must  it  die  ? 
'Tis  not  for  us  to  know  its  mission  here. 
The  tiniest  insect  in  its  cell  Vemote 
Fulfills  its  purpose  in  the  wondrous  chain 
God  forged  at  the  creation.     Not  a  heart 
Which  beats  but  has  its  throbbings  linked  within 


THE   SLAUGHTERED    CRANE.  79 

Some  other  heart,  and  has,  perchance,  a  home 
As  sacred  to  its  wordless  loves  as  shrines 
By  man  held  dear.     By  thine  own  altars  then, 
By  all  those  ties  to  thee  the  tenderest, 
Beware  what  thou  dost  render  desolate  ! 
Pause  ere  thou  lay'st  a  finger  on  a  pulse 
To  still  its  throbs  !     Withdraw  thy  hand  in  awe 
Lest  thou,  in  killing  wantonly,  should  steal 
Thy  Maker's  treasures  ;  for  the  breath  of  life 
The  hand  and  seal  of  God  the  Father  is. 


THE    ORGAN-GRINDER. 

AWEARY  man  he  sought  my  door — 
A  worn  old  man,  ill-clad  and  poor — 
Who  on  his  bending  shoulders  bore 

The  means  of  his  subsistence. 
An  organ,  old  and  quavering, 
Like  him  who  raised  his  voice  to  sing, 
Accordant  with  the  jarring  thing 
Which  earned  him  his  existence. 

An  aged  man,  with  locks  all  white 
As  snow  on  lofty  Alpine  height, 
And  features  covered  with  the  blight 

Of  time  and  crushing  sadness : 
With  feeble  steps  he  came  alone, 
And  cast  his  heavy  burden  down, 
Then  begged  me,  in  his  flattering  tone, 

"  Be  gracious  in  thy  gladness." 

I  gave  him  there  to  drink  and  eat ; 
Then  rising  from  his  lowly  seat, 
With  heavy  foot  the  time  he  beat 
And  tuned  his  voice  for  singing  ; 


THE   ORGAN-GRINDER.  Si 

Far  through  the  vacant  village  street 
His  untrained  voice  rang  wild  and  sweet, 
While  every  cadence  seemed  replete 
With  memories  it  was  bringing. 

For,  as  he  sang,  the  trickling  tears 
Coursed  through  the  wrinkles  of  his  years — 
Heart  rain  that  swept  the  silent  biers 

Of  long-departed  pleasures  ; 
And  still  he  sang  with  trembling  tone 
Of  friends  he'd  loved  and  joys  he'd  known, 
There  in  the  twilight  dim,  alone, 

In  soft  and  mournful  measures. 

~i 

He  sang  of  one  sequestered  spot 
Across  the  sea,  where  stood  the  cot 
Where  first,  in  childhood's  hour,  he  sought 

A  mother's  fond  caressing  ; 
He  told  how  shattered  fortunes  led 
His  steps  afar  to  earn  his  bread ; 
And  as  he  paused  I  bent  my  head 

And  craved  the  old  man's  blessing. 

For  age  and  sorrow  and  white  hair 
Ennobling  toil  and  chastening  care, 
The  bishop's  gown  and  mitre  are 

Upon  God's  broken-hearted. 
Humbly  his  benediction  fell, 
Then  came  a  faltering  farewell, 
Lost  in  the  peals  of  vesper  bell — 

The  minstrel  had  departed. 


TO    BABY    LILY. 


GO  bring  me  of  blossoms  the  brightest  and  best, 
Those  jewels  of  Nature  that  grow  on  her  breast ; 
Bring  bird-songs  of   warblers  that  flash   through  the 

groves 

Where  the  first  of  all  lovers  repeated  their  loves  ; 
Bring  voices  of  billows  in  joyous  commotion  ; 
The  purest  of  pearls  from  the  gem-beds  of  ocean  : 
Bring  all  that  is  rarest  and  fairest  to  lay 
At  the  feet  of  the  Lily  that  blossomed  in  May. 


Go  bring  me,  of  spring-time,  her  daintiest  breath  ; 
Imprison  the  dewdrops  that  jewel  the  heath  ; 
Go  gather  ye  here  from  earth's  loftiest  height, 
Still  gilded  with  star-beams,  morn's  eai'liest  light ; 
Go  bring  from  eternity's  threshold  a  beam 
Of  unquenchable  radiance  ever  to  gleam 
On  the  wandering  footsteps,  wherever  they  stray, 
Of  Lily,  our  Lily,  that  blossomed  in  May. 

82 


TO  BABY  LILT.  83 


Bring  hither  some  tankard  unbought  and  unsold, 
More  shining  than  silver  and  purer  than  gold, 
Whose  wave-polished  brim  no  mortal  hath  tasted, 
Whose  contents  divine  no  rude  hand  hath  wasted  ; 
Scooped  out  from  some  shell  of  the  cavernous  deep, 
In  the  brightest  of  crystal  its  rosy  rim  steep  ; 
Let  heaven's  best  beam  on  the  bright  waters  play, 
And  we'll  drink  to  the  Lily  that  blossomed  in  May. 


Go  bring  me  bright  dreams  for  an  innocent  pillow, 
Faith  steadfast  and  strong  for  life's  dangerous  billow  ; 
Bring  trust  in  the  Highest  through  surges  of  sorrow  ; 
Bring    strength    for   to-day   and    sweet    hope   for   to- 
morrow ; 

A  vigilant  soul,  while  the  tender  heart  dreams 
By  youth's  starry  meadows  and  sunshiny  streams: 
Bring  every  best  blessing  to  lovingly  lay 
On  the  brow  of  our  Lily  that  blossomed  in  May- 


THE    HAUNTED    HOUSE. 

FANCY. 

HARK  to  those  footsteps  in  the  hall, 
That  step  upon  the  stair  ! 
Heard  ye  that  hand  against  the  wall  ? 
The  shriek  that  echoed  there  ? 

FACT. 

'Twas  but  the  wind  that  crept  between 

The  crevices  and  cracks  ; 
The  ghost  has  never  yet  been  seen 

That  faced  the  fire  of  facts. 

FANCY. 

Nay,  nay  ;  'twas  not  the  wind.     Behold 

The  door-knob  slowly  turns  ! 
Perhaps  some  spirit  sad  and  cold 

For  this  bright  fireside  yearns. 
And  list !  upon  the  outer  door 

Didst  hear  that  heavy  knock  ? 
The  old  house  shook  from  floor  to  floor 

In  answer  to  the  shock. 

84 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE.  85 

FACT. 

Nonsense !     Imagination's  hand 

Alone  the  latch  did  lift ; 
Reason  and  sense  both  laughing  stand, 

Such  idle  whims  to  sift. 
The  knock  upon  the  outer  door 

Was  some  lone  cartwheel's  jar, 
Or  watchman's  rattle  ;  nothing  more 

Than  all  such  knockings  are. 

FANCY. 

Tell  me  not  so — night  after  night, 

Up,  up  the  winding  stair, 
With  flickering  lamp  and  robe  all  white, 

And  wild,  disheveled  hair, 
I  see  a  pallid  figure  wind 

With  silent  step  and  slow, 
With  withered  roses  loosely  twined 

About  her  brow  of  snow. 

FACT. 

Some  solid  supper  tells  that  tale 

Eaten  'twixt  twelve  and  one — 
Some  wretched  pickle  steeped  in  ale 

Or  roastbeef  over  done. 
These  are  the  spades  that  dig  men's  graves — 

Such  hands  our  death-bells  ring — 
Oh  souls  are  body's  veriest  slaves 

Where  appetite  is  king ! 


86  THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 

FANCY. 

Nay,  trust  me,  'tis  a  haunted  house 

In  which  I've  come  to  dwell ; 
No  wind,  no  pickle,  mug  or  mouse 

So  dire  a  tale  could  tell. 
From  cellar  damp  to  garret  high, 

All  through  the  night  hours  lone, 
Strange  footsteps  fall,  strange  voices  sigh, 

Or  sob,  or  shriek,  or  groan  ! 

FACT. 

A  haunted  stomach,  mark  me  well, 

Holds  all  the  ghosts  you  see : 
"Oysters  and  wines  thrown  in  pell-mell 

With  coffee  and  with  tea. 
Up,  down  through  dim  intestinal  hall 

Some  turkey's  leg  may  stalk, 
And  wonder  where  in  distant  thrall 

Its  lonely  mate  doth  walk. 

Some  partridge,  too,  all  marred  and  pale 

May  make  its  wretched  way 
Through  cabbage  and  cucumbers  stale, 

Which  seem  inclined  to  stay. 
And  vinegar,  well  spiced  and  sour, 

Shudders  to  stand  between 
The  milk-punch  of  the  last  half  hour 

And  custard  made  of  cream. 

Hence  springs  your  sprite  with  troubled  hair, 
Your  demons  grim  and  gray  ; 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE.  87 

The  gibbering  ghosts  which  grin  and  glare, 

And  which  no  priest  can  lay. 
Nay,  Fancy,  prythee  do  not  speak ; 

Thy  rein  must  now  be  slacked  ; 
Thou  may'st  not  lay  thy  dainty  cheek 

'Gainst  the  rough  beard  of  Fact. 


TO    MY    SISTER. 

MISS  me  sometimes  !     There'll  be  a  vacant  place, 
.    My  own  sweet  sister,  where  so  long  I've  been  ; 
There'll  be  an  empty  chair,  another  face 

By  thy  fond  side  where  I've  so  oft  been  seen. 
In  the  long  coming  years  may  memory's  chimes 
Ring  up  kind  thoughts  of  me.  Miss  me  sometimes  ! 

Miss  me  sometimes !     When  mirth  and  music  reign 
Throughout   these    scenes   which   I   have    loved   so 
well! 

Oh  miss  me  then  !  for  never  here  again 

With  the  clear  chorus  will  my  glad  voice  swell. 

My  footsteps  then  will  roam  in  other  climes, 

Far  from  this  cherished  spot.     Miss  me  sometimes ! 

Miss  me  sometimes,  and  fondly  love  me  still ; 

My  heart,  like  mountain  summit  bleak  and  bare, 
Can  bravely  front  the  stormy  clouds  that  chill 

If  far  beyond  the  gloom,  undimmed  and  fair, 
I  know  thy  star  of  love  unclouded  climbs 
To  shine  on  me  as  now.     Miss  me  sometimes ! 


TO  MT  SISTER.  89 

My  eager  soul  has  dreamed — ay,  madly  dreamed — 
Of  honors  and  the  glory  that  fame  brings ; 

But  it  has  found  life  is  not  what  it  seemed, 
And  honor,  fame,  unsatisfying  things. 

Between  the  leaves  of  my  young  life  lie  pressed, 

Like  withered  flowers,  the  hopes  it  treasured  best. 

My  aspirations  long  since  died  ;  this  brow 

'Neath  Disappointment's  bitter  sting  still  smarts  ; 

And  all  the  monuments  I  ask  for  now 
Are  monuments  of  love  in  human  hearts. 

Oh  rear,  sweet  sister,  in  thy  heart  for  me 

Something  like  this  to  live  eternally. 

And  now  farewell !     Oh  may  our  Father's  hand 
Brighten  thy  path  with  every  kindly  gift ; 

And  angel  guardians  in  the  starry  land 
From  thy  fair  brow  untimely  sorrows  lift. 

Farewell,  farewell ;  ah  !  sister  mine,  when  chimes 

Memory's  vesper,  miss  me  thou  wilt  sometimes. 


WAITING. 

DREARILY  burns  the  fire  in  the  grate  ; 
The  wind  is  high  and  the  hour  is  late, 
But,  lovingly  here  I  sit  and  wait 
For  a  step  I  long  to  hear. 

The  night  is  cold  and  the  wind  is  high, 
But  the  moon  is  full  and  round  in  the  sky, 
Lighting  the  path  which  my  love  comes  by 
My  desolate  heart  to  cheer. 

The  air  is  chill  and  the  stars  are  few, 
On  yonder  plains  of  infinite  blue, 
While  I  wait  for  the  lover  fond  and  true 
Who  is  coming  by  and  by. 

Swift  clouds  are  hurrying  over  the  night, 
But  what  care  I  for  the  threatening  sight? 
Though  the  moon  be  dark,  the  eye  is  bright 
Which  is  coming  by  and  by. 

Though  thunders  roll,  upon  his  breast 
My  head  shall  sink  in  happy  rest, 
Like  a  birdling's,  hid  in  quiet  nest 
From  the  storm-king's  angry  eye. 

90 


MY    GRANDSIRE'S    WATCH. 

A  TIMEPIECE  old,  yet  worn  and  weary  never, 
It  hangs,  a  relic,  by  the  bed-room  door ; 
With  ceaseless  ticking  thus  it  sayeth  ever : 

"  Years  fourscore  and  more 
I've  told  time's  steady,  steady  progress  o'er." 

I  saw  it  first  when  for  my  childhood's  pleasure 
My  grandsire  held  it  to  my  wondering  ear, 

And  bade  me  listen  while  its  busy  measure 

Said  to  me  pleasantly, 
"Merry,  merry  hours  I'm  marking  for  thee  here." 

The  good  man  died  ;  still  the  old  watch  kept  ticking, 

And  as  they  hung  it  by  the  bedroom  door 
I  lingered  there  to  hear  its  ceaseless  clicking 

Saying  o'er,  "  Years  fourscore 

Have  borne  him  hence  for  ever,  ever  more." 

I  listened  to  it  as  my  own  years  hastened 
To  mingle  with  the  memories  of  the  past, 

And  even  then  my  yearning  heart  was  chastened 

To  hear  it  say,  "  Hastening  away 
Is  youth's  bright  morn  whose  sunshine  cannot  last !" 


92  MT  GRANDSIRE'S    WATCH. 

In  that  same  spot,  when  my  full  heart  was  darkened 
By  heavy  clouds  of  changeful  after-years, 

With  stricken  soul  to  its  clear  voice  I  hearkened — 

"  Hopes  and  fears,  births  and  biers  : 
Such  is  this  life — a  scene  of  smiles  and  tears." 

And  when  my  best  of  earthly  hopes  were  scattered, 
And  graveyard  gloom  hid  those  I  held  most  dear, 

I  turned,  with  all  my  fondest  heart-ties  shattered, 

To  hear  that  voice  saying,  u  Rejoice, 
Thine  own  time  cometh — naught  is  eternal  here." 


UMBRAE. 


TICK,  tick,  so  the  pulse  of  Time 
In  its  solemn  monotony  throbs  ; 
And  away  on  the  hills  with  a  woe  that  chills, 
The  dying  storm-blast  sobs  and  sobs, 
Like  the  heart  of  penitent  crime. 


The  winds  rush  over  the  moor 

Like  steeds  that  have  never  been  tamed, 
And  through  years  to-night  of  mildew  and  blight, 

Raps,  raps  at  my  heart's  closed  door, 
A  love  that  has  never  been  named. 


I  gaze  at  the  starlit  sky, 

That  bewildering  poem  of  God, 
And  my  heart  keeps  time  to  a  sweet  old  rhyme, 
Learned  'mid  the  asters  and  golden-rod 
Of  an  autumn  long  gone  by. 

93 


94  UMBRAE. 


Out  of  the  wreck  of  my  life, 

Floats  up  a  young  face  that  is  fair — 
Young  and  transgressing  and  unconfessing 
I  see  it  floating,  floating  there, 
Amid  the  billowy  strife. 


Life  was  a  dream  when  we  met, 
Luxurious,  balmy  and  bright ; 
She  wandered  away  ere  yet  the  full  day 

Had  taught  me  man's  most  ennobling  right 
Is  to  forgive  and  forget. 


I  buried  her  put  of  sight, 

'Neath  the  sods  of  my  passing  years  ; 
And  rolled  a  stone  'gainst  the  sepulchre  lone, 

Where,  shrouded  in  manhood's  manliest  tears, 

My  love  lay  cold  and  white. 


But  oft  and  again  as  now 

That  love  which  I  never  have  named 
From  the  past  will  come  with  its  young  heart  dumb, 
And  the  red,  red  lips  which  never  blamed 

Seem  lingering  on  my  brow  ! 


Who  looketh  not  back  sometimes 

Through  the  valley  of  vanished  years, 
Nor  longs  for  the  power,  for  one  short  hour, 


UMBRAE.  95 

To  efface  some  step,  to  dry  some  tears, 
Some  requiems  change  to  chimes? 


Could  I  but  beckon  her  back, 

Could  she  see  me  owning  the  shame 
That  sent  her  adrift  with  no  one  to  lift 

The  dust  from  her  tarnished  name, 

The  stones  from  her  young  life's  track ; 


Then,  then  to  its  life  of  woe, 

Could  I  yield  my  desolate  heart, 
And  welcome  the  stroke  that  another's  broke 
When  the  fiat  went  forth  for  us  to  part 
In  that  autumn  long  ago  ! 


Shame  on  my  wretched  pride, 
Shame  on  my  cowardly  soul, 
Which  so  feared  the  world  it  madly  hurled 
A  woman  out  on  its  dangerous  shoal, 
Nor  knew  if  she  lived  or  died. 


Yet  gazing  on  yonder  sky, 

That  mystical  poem  of  God, 
I  seem  to  behold,  through  the  gates  of  gold, 

My  lost  one  laying  her  grievous  load 
At  the  feet  of  Christ  on  high. 


GERTRUDE. 


ERTRUDE  !  A  few  brief  weeks  ago,  how  linked 

With  joy  this  name  !     It  was  in  mirthful  hours 
A  melody  —  sunshine  in  clouded  moods, 
In  saddened  hours  a  prayer.     "  Gertrude,"  we  cried, 
And  she  we  loved  came  flying  to  our  arms 
On  friendship's  wings,  and  laid  her  hands  in  ours, 
And  gave  us  smiles  and  gentle  words,  and  stood 
Beside  the  weary  sufferer's  couch  of  pain, 
Like  some  mild  star  whose  gentle  radiance  beams 
On  evening's  cloud. 

Her  daily  deeds  were  like 

The  flowers  which  children  scatter  in  the  path 
Of  brides  —  so  pure,  so  fresh  ;  and  where  there  grew 
A  thorn,  she  meekly  kept  it  for  herself 
And  gave  the  rose  away  ! 

As  pilgrims  seek 

Some  consecrated  shrine,  so  came  the  poor 
To  her,  and  poured  their  sorrows  at  her  feet  — 
With  ready  hand  she  ministered  to  want 
While  her  young  lips  did  feed  the  hungry  heart, 
And  clothe  the  naked,  trembling  soul  with  God's 
Blest  promises. 


GERTRUDE.  97 

And  little  ones — those  gems 
Which  Jesus  scatters  from  his  crown  for  us 
To  gather  and  replace  therein — whose  hearts 
Beat  so  much  nearer  heaven  than  our  own — 
Lavished  their  spotless  love,  as  if  they  saw 
And  recognized  in  her  the  shining  face 
Of  one  but  straying  here  from  Paradise. 
A  goodly  thing  it  is  to  know  of  one 
That  little  children  loved  her. 

Alas !  for  us, 

Death  came  !     Death,  the  pale  sculptor !     Pitiless, 
He  pressed  the  lips,  and  they  were  ice  ;  he  touched 
The  brow,  and  it  was  marble  ;  laid  his  hand 
Upon  the  heart,  and  it  was  still  for  aye. 
The  friend  we  loved,  our  fairest  and  our  best, 
He  saw  and  chilled  into  a  statue. 

"  Gertrude !" 

No  more  to  us' a  name  !     A  monument 
Erected  in  our  hearts,  it  stands  for  all 
That's  purest,  brightest,  best.     Around  its  base 
Memories  cluster  like  forget-me-nots, 
And  love  its  apex  crowns  with  immortelles. 
When  we  would  bring  to  mind  the  holy  type 
Of  life,  of  beauty,  innocence  and  worth, 
Of  noble  attributes  and  lofty  aims, 
Of  Christian  meekness  and  unswerving  faith, 
Of  rarest  self-forgetfulness  and  deeds 
Of  saint-like  goodness, — when  we  fain  would  rest 
Our  broken  hearts  on  holy  ground  like  this, 
Then,  then,  we  whisper,  "  Gertrude  !" 
9  G 


YOU    ARE    NOT    FORGOTTEN." 


1VT  °T  forg°tten'"  "  not 

1  \|     Those  words  sweep  o'er  my  heart 

With  all  the  sunny  brightness 
Which  remembrance  can  impart. 

Not  forgotten  !"     Oh  there's  music 
In  those  kindly  words  for  me, 

And  ever  through  their  sweet  refrain 
Float  memories  of  thee. 

How  pleasantly  come  back  to  me 

Hours  fleeted  long  ago  ; 
When  eyes  were  bright  and  hearts  were  light, 

And  spirits  pure  as  snow  ; 
When  merry  lips  trilled  merry  songs, 

And  every  heart  was  gay, 
And  you  and  I  went  laughingly 

Along  youth's  rosy  way  ! 

How  joyously  we  feasted  Life 

And  crowned  him  merry  king, 
When  apple  trees  were  full  of  bloom, 

And  the  robins  welcomed  spring  ! 

*  From  a  friend's  letter. 
98 


ARE  NOT  FORGOTTEN.  99 

The  blood  that  made  our  young  hearts  beat 

Was  then  a  rushing  tide, 
Which  every  brightness  reveled  in, 

And  every  grief  defied. 

The  summer  eves  were  blissful  then, 

The  summer  days  were  long  ; 
The  woods  seemed  full  of  bluest  birds, 

The  sunshine  full  of  song. 
'  Forgotten  !"     No,  but  life  has  grown 

For  both  so  earnest  now, 
And  sadder  things  than  flowers  are  fixed 

Upon  each  other's  brow  ! 

But  here's  to  thee !     There  still  exists 

A  bright  spring  in  my  heart, 
Which  fills  a  cup  of  love  for  thee, 

Dear  friend,  where'er  thou  art ; 
And  wheresoe'er  fate  marks  thy  path, 

By  mountain,  plain  or  sea, 
May  early  joys  and  early  friends 

Still  unforgotten  be ! 


ODE  TO  THE  "MOTHER  HUBBARD"  OF  A 
FANCY-DRESS  BALL. 

MOST  quaint  and  meritorious  dame, 
Who  bears  that  fond  maternal  name 
To  childish  memory  dear, 
Permit  a  simple  quill  of  goose 
Enthusiastic  thoughts  to  loose. 
And  eulogize  thee  here. 

What  heart  that  loves  the  happy  past, 
What  eye  that  backward  loves  to  cast 

A  glance  to  bygone  days, 
But  Mother  Hubbard's  title  speaks 
WTith  glistening  eyes  and  glowing  cheeks, 

And  lips  that  love  to  praise? 

'Mid  all  the  gay  and  gladsome  throng 
Of  ladies  fair  and  courtiers  strong, 

Within  the  festive  hall. 
Thy  quaint  and  picturesque  attire, 
Thy  ready  wit  and  soft  satire, 

Were  winsomest  of  all. 

100 


ODE    TO   "MOTHER  HUBBARD.^ 

Though  England's  proud  and  haughty  queen, 
With  kings  and  princes  seldom  seen, 

Adorned  the  motley  crowd, 
Each  heart  forgetful  of  all  these, 
Down  upon  Memory's  bended  knees 

To  Mother  Hubbard  bowed. 

We  wonder  not  that  at  thy  shrine 
Thy  wondrous  friend  of  class  canine, 

Long  wrecked  on  storied  strand, 
As  the  dear  object  of  thy  love, 
So  blest,  should  quite  distracted  prove, 

And  not  know  how  to  stand. 

Full  many  a  wight  of  present  day 
To  hear  thy  generous  lips  but  say 

Not  every  hope  was  dead, 
Would  daily  dance  a  merry  jig, 
Don  any  sort  of  martial  rig, 

Or  stand  upon  his  head  ! 

Dear  dame  !     May  thy  life's  cupboard  be 
For  ever  filled  most  plenteously 

With  every  blessing  known  ; 
And  when  some  knight  shall  seek  to  share 
Thy  woman's  love  and  woman's  care, 

Refuse  him  not  a  bone ! 

9* 


MY    BIRTH-DAY. 


A  PILGRIM  on  Time's  silent  shore, 
I  rest  my  weary  feet  to-day — 
Look  back  upon  the  nevermore, 
The  sun  which  always  gilds  the  yore. 
And  sound  my  harp's  lone  lay. 


Here  at  the  feet  of  youthful  years 
I  strike  the  half-regretful  strings — 

Sound  the  soft  strain  which  gently  clears 

Away  the  mistiness  of  tears 
Fond  memory  ever  brings. 


To-days  I've  known  and  ceased  to  know 

Rise  fast  on  my  reverted  gaze, 
While  like  retreating  armies  go 
The  hours  I  never  more  may  know, 

To  join  my  yesterdays. 
102 


MY  BIRTH-DAT.  103 

IV. 

Yet  why  should  I  be  sad?     Behold 

My  silky  locks  are  brown  as  yet ; 
No  silver  shining  'mid  their  gold, 
No  lines  upon  my  forehead  scrolled, 

Though  Time  and  I  have  met ; 

v. 

Ay,  often  met  before  to-day, 

For  I  Time's  tenant  am  while  here ; 

And  he,  before  his  house  of  clay, 

Raps  regularly  for  his  pay 
On  rent-day,  once  a  year. 


His  clear  receipt  in  heavy  hand 

Stands  traced  on  every  brow  that  lives 
All  other  debts  for  house  or  land 
We  may  with  bold  affront  withstand, 
But  Time  no  credit  gives. 


I  paid,  to-day,  the  annual  rent, 

But  paid  it  with  a  bitter  sigh  ; 
'Tis  gold  I  grieve  to  feel  is  spent- 
Gold  from  a  gracious  Giver  sent 
To  spendthrifts  such  as  I ! 


But  let  my  rested  feet  move  on, 
My  pilgrimage  not  yet  is  o'er  ; 


1 04  MY  BIR  TH-DA  T. 

No  more  I'll  mourn  the  glories  gone, 
But  with  my  new  to-morrow's  dawn 
Resume  my  road  once  more. 


Dashed  from  my  cheek  be  every  tear, 
Each  shadow  from  my  spirit  cast ; 
What  though  upon  the  Past's  gray  bier 
The  corpse  of  still  another  year 
Lies  in  its  shroud  at  last? 


"Pis  but  a  warning  touch  of  pain 

Upon  my  careless  brow  at  best — 
A  seeming  loss,  a  certain  gain — 
One  link  removed  from  that  long  chain 
Which  leads  to  endless  rest. 


ACROSTIC. 

A  BREATH,  a  thought,  a  cloud  that  flies 
Perfumed  with  reveries  toward  the  skies ; 
Rolling  in  purple  mists  away 
In  paths  where  man  may  never  stray. 

Melting  our  passions  into  calm, 
Excelling  Gilead's  magic  balm, 
Here  wakes  our  bliss — here  dies  our  grief — 
A  whole  existence  in  a  leaf! 

Vapor  and  fragrance,  ashes,  dust ; 
A  joy  serene,  a  dream  to  trust ; 
Niched  in  thy  fires  our  visions  read, 
A  world,  a  hope,  a  heaven,  a  weed ! 


THE    BOX    OF    OLD    SHOES. 

A  COBBLER  dwelt  in  an  Eastern  town, 
And  a  busy  old  man  was  he, 
He  worked  from  morn  till  the  sun  went  down, 

With  his  lapstone  on  his  knee. 
Little  recked  he  of  the  world  without — 

Its  bustle  and  bother  and  din — 
He  cared  not  a  fig  what  folks  were  about, 
If  their  "  custom"  he  gathered  in. 

All  the  day  long  his  hammer  and  awl 

And  bristled  "  wax-end"  he  plied  ; 
Nor  thought  of  his  neighbors  great  or  small— 

Who  was  born,  who  wedded,  who  died. 
And  time  wore  on  with  him  stitching  there 

On  "  upper"  and  "  siding"  well  "  soled" 
Till  his  empty  pockets  no  more  were  bare, 

But  jingled  with  musical  gold. 

Then  a  larger  shop  became  his  desire, 

And  straight  did  he  set  about 
To  widen  the  floor  and  raise  the. roof  higher, 

And  move  the  old  rubbish  out. 
106 


THE  BOX  OF  OLD  SHOES.  107 

And  thus  he  discovered  a  box  all  grim  . 

With  the  dust  and  the  dirt  of  years, 
And  he  opened  it,  out  in  the  daylight  dim, 

With  a  pair  of  shoemaker's  shears. 


'  Gad  !"  cried  he,  "  here's  a  box  of  old  shoes, 
Good  for  nothing  at  all  I  s'pose — 
Here's  little  and  big  and  great  and  small, 
Old-fashioned  and  worth  not  the  prick  of  my  awl 
They're  the  refuse  work  of  some  earlier  year, 
All  dusty  and  mouldy  ;  I  vow  'tis  queer 
That  so  long  in  my  snug  old  shop  they'd  be, 
Unnoticed  and  wholly  forgot  by  me. 

'  I'll  set  them  out  by  the  old  shop  door ; 
They'll  do  for  a  sign  if  nothing  more ; 
It's  a  pretty  good  lot  to  be  wasted  so, 
But  then  what  better  thing  can  I  do  ?" 
Just  here  a  thought  struck  the  old  man's  pate  : 
With  pen  and  ink  he  fulfilled  it  straight, 
And  nailed  this  bill  on  his  box  of  shoes : 

'  Folks  who  want  'ern  are  welcome  to  choose." 


Well  pleased  he  felt  in  his  heart's  kind  fount 
That  "  loss"  had  thus  turned  to  "  good  account," 
And  he  thought  how  many  a  foot  now  bare 
Could  cover  its  shivering  nakedness  there ; 
And  he  worked  away  that  whole  day  long, 
Smiles  on  his  lips  or  a  snatch  of  song, 
For  he  felt  so  many  in  sorry  need 
Could  a  blessing  reap  from  his  humble  deed. 


IOS  THE  BOX   OF  OLD    SHOES. 

But  his  friends  came  by  and  read  the  bill, 

Then  into  the  box  turned  their  greedy  eyes, 
And  with  eager  fingers  they  searched  until 

They  found  for  themselves  a  suitable  "  size." 
They  stamped  about  with  sneer  and  frown 

To  see  if  they  fitted  their  own  feet  quite, 
And  they  swore  they  did  as  they  laced  them  down, 

Albeit  they  were  "  a  trifle  too  tight." 


Then  with  angered  lips  they  shouted  loud : 

"  Here's  an  insult,  zounds  !  we  none  will  bear ; 
This  man's  getting  rich  and  waxing  proud, 

And  thinks  his  grim  old  rubbish  we'll  wear  ! 
They  were  meant  for  us  sure !  behold  how  they  fit — 

Though  perhaps  they  do  a  trifle  squeeze. 
Odds  !  bristles  !  his  crazy  old  pate  we'll  split 

For  daring  to  offer  us  cast-off's  like  these !" 

Then  relatives  came  who  heard  he  was  rich — 

They  never  had  known  him  in  Poverty's  door — 
And  thought  they'd  look  in  now  to  see  him  stitch, 

And  perhaps  catch  a  drop  as  his  fortunes  ran  o'er. 
But  they  caught  the  cry  his  friends  had  raised, 

And  tall  and  short  and  fat  and  slim, 
Each  vowed  a  "  size"  he  was  "  sore  amazed," 

To  find  in  that  box  expressly  for  him. 

Then,  arming  themselves  with  a  goodly  load 
From  the  labeled  box  outside  the  door, 

They  into  the  cobbler's  premises  strode, 

Where,  singing,  he  hammered  his  lap-stone  o'er. 


THE  BOX  OF  OLD   SHOES.  109 

As  up  he  rose,  surprised  at  the  crowd 

Of  kindred  and  friends  in  his  presence  meek, 

They  knocked  him  down,  and  vehemently  vowed 
Not  an  impudent  word  would  they  let  him  speak. 

In  vain  he  strove  in  his  wild  despair 

T'  explain  the  "case"  in  the  way  it  stood ; 
But  they  banged  and  beat  him,  and  all  did  swear 

Not  a  word  should    he  say,  they'd  be  shod    if   he 

should. 
So  with  merciless  blows  was  he  overthrown — 

The  blood  from  his  body  did  slowly  ooze, 
And  he  gave  up  the  ghost  with  a  mouldy  moan. 

Falling  dead  'neath  his  lot  of  dusty  shoes. 

Thus  the  kind  intent  of  a  generous  heart 

Was  turned  to  ill  in  that  angry  mood, 
And  the  shoemaker's  body  beaten  apart 

By  the  very  weapons  he  wielded  for  good. 
How  oft,  as  I  roam  this  wide  world  o'er 

And  note  the  paths  that  people  choose, 
My  thoughts  go  back  to  that  box  by  the  door, 

And  the  innocent  cobbler's  lot  of  shoes  ! 

When  I  see  fair  words  which  innocent  lips 

Let  fall  in  the  lightness  of  guileless  hearts — 
Pure  as  the  sweet  the  honey-bee  sips 

From  the  rose's  depths  ere  its  bloom  departs — 
When  these  words  are  torn  by  the  vulture  beaks 

Which  Purity's  beauty  loves  to  bruise, 
I'm  certain  their  arrogant  venom  seeks 

A  "  size"  for  itself  in  the  box  of  shoes. 

10 


to  THE  BOX  OF   OLD   SHOES. 

When  some  thoughtless  jest  from  a  lip  of  mirth 

Cast  lightly  forth — a  breath  on  the  air — 
Is  seized  by  the  shoe- fitters  here  on  earth, 

And  rendered  foul  where  'twas  meant  most  fair- 
When  a  careless  glance  from  a  gay  pair  of  eyes 

Is  caught  up  as  something  on  which  to  muse, 
'Tis  plain  the  defamer  is  seeking  a  "  size" 

For  himself  in  the  box  of  ready-made  shoes. 

If  a  tale  by  some  di'eamy  romancer  be  writ, 

Each  character  chosen  out  of  the  brain, 
And  the  shoe-fitters  pull  it  to  pieces  to  fit 

Their  personal  attributes  into  its  vein, 
I  turn  me  away  then  thoughtful  and  lone, 

On  the  ludicrous  folly  of  such  to  muse. 
And  feel  there's  a  "  fit,"  or  they'd  not  put  it  on, 

In  the  innocent  cobbler's  old  box  of  shoes. 


WILLIE'S    WIFE. 


WILLIE'S  wife  has  come  amang  us — 
Willie's  wife  is  young  : 
Sure  her  heart  can  never  wrang  us 
Wi'  sae  sweet  a  tongue. 

il. 

Willie's  wife  has  een  that  sparkle 

Like  a  starry  night : 
Surely  anger  canna  darkle 

Een  that  shine  sae  bright ! 


Willie's  wife  has  lips  as  smilin' 

As  the  sun  at  morn  ; 
Ah  !  the  heart  maun  be  beguilin' 

Where  such  smiles  are  born. 


Een  sae  bright  an'  lips  sae  pleasant 

Are  as  sweet  as  spring ; 
Be  her  future  like  her  present — 

Sic  a  bonny  thing ! 

ill 


WILLIE'S    WIFE. 
V. 

Mony  folk  that  ken  her  tell  us 

Luvely  is  her  life  : 
Certain  sumthin'  gude  befell  us 

When  Will  chose  a  wife  ! 


Surely  cauldness  s'all  na  stay  us — 

Gudely  maun  she  be  ; 
Ways  that  won  our  Willie  frae  us 

Maun  be  fair  to  see. 


THE    MURDERER. 

OUT,  out  into  the  night  he  speeds  away, 
His  guilty  heart  beating  the  reveille 
Which  breaks  for  ever  in  his  stricken  breast 
The  slumbers  of  remorse.     The  stars,  to  which 
He  has  been  wont  to  lift  a  loving  gaze, 
He  fain  would  hide  from  now,  and  the  soft  winds, 
Whose  gentle  fingers  once  caressed  his  brow, 
He  shrinks  from  as  from  whispering  demons  who 
His  damning  secret  now  would  fain  betray 
To  all  the  world.     The  murmur  of  a  brook, 
A  rustling  leaf,  the  twitter  of  a  bird, 
Cause  him  to  start  and  tremble,  and  the  dews 
Of  mortal  dread  to  wet  his  fevered  brow 

Nature,  through  guilt  of  his,  seems  guilty  grown  ; 

Her  holiest  smile  seems,  in  his  sin-veiled  sight, 

The  hollow  mask  which  hides  Suspicion's  face. 

In  every  shadow  he  a  pursuer  sees, 

In  each  sunbeam  a  dagger  for  his  heart ; 

The  passing  breeze  seems  laden  with  his  name, 

Each  bird-song  freighted  with  a  passing  knell ; 

The  rose  seems  tinted  with  his  crime's  red  hue, 

His  victim's  pallor  each  pale  lily  wears. 


114  THE  MURDERER. 

He  hates  the  light  which  may  betray  himself, 
The  darkness  dreads  which  may  conceal  his  foes. 
Upon  the  ramparts  of  his  life  pale  Fear, 
A  sleepless  sentry,  walks,  while  grim  Distrust 
Doubts  even  Fear,  and  so  keeps  double  watch. 


Hunted  like  some  wild  beast  from  place  to  place, 
For  ever  hiding  and  yet  never  hid, 
Nameless,  without  a  home,  without  an  hour 
Unhaunted  by  the  spectre  of  his  sin  ; 
Fearing  to  sleep  and  dreading  to  awake, 
Afraid  of  God,  yet  more  afraid  of  man  ; 
Hungered  and  thirsting  amid  Plenty's  feast, 
Stealing  with  bated  breath  through  thorny  ways 
When  pleasant  paths  invite  his  bleeding  feet ; 
Shunned  by  the  good  and  hated  by  the  bad — 
His  days  creep  on  like  some  long  funeral  train, 
A  fearful  corpse  for  ever  in  their  midst. 

Off  from  his  manly  shoulders  he  has  dropt 

His  manhood,  like  a  cloak  which  did  conceal 

His  hideous  deformity  of  soul. 

No  more  may  he  stand  forth  among  mankind 

A  man.     The  world  has  branded  him  accursed  ! 

He  knows  no  solitude  ;  for  him,  alas  ! 

The  gloomiest  loneliness  is  peopled  most ; 

In  the  dread  midnight,  when  all  others  sleep, 

Silence  shrieks  murder  in  his  startled  ear ! 

And  when  the  Sabbath  pours  its  holy  balm 

Upon  the  bowed  head  of  a  Christian  world, 

He,  on  the  rack,  in  Thought's  hot  dungeon  bound, 

Writhes  in  his  agony,  while  Conscience  stands 


THE   MURDERER.  "5 

As  Grand  Inquisitor,  searing  his  soul 
With  the  hot  irons  of  remembered  guilt. 

He  dreams  sometimes  of  childhood's  happy  days — 

A  father's  smile,  a  mother's  loving  kiss  ; 

Then  starts  and  feels  that  he  has  laid 

A  bloody  hand  on  Memory's  white  shoulder ! 

Sometimes  he  kneels  and  clasps  his  crimsoned  palms, 

And  feels  his  dumb  heart  wrestling  with  its  crime, 

Yet  dares  not  breathe  one  prayer  to  that  just  God 

Whom  he  has  sinned  against.     His  weary  feet 

Shall  rest  no  more.     He  must  take  up  his  cross — • 

The  cross  of  his  great  sin — and  bear  it  on : 

His  guilt  is  with  him  always.     Not  a  depth 

So  deep  but  it  shall  find  him  out ;  no  height 

So  high,  save  Christ's  forgiving  arms, 

But  it  shall  track  him  there  and  smite  him  still. 

No  more  his  brow  shall  know  Affection's  kiss, 

No  more  his  red  hand  feel  a  friend's  fond  clasp. 

His  lips  shall  thirst  in  vain  to  drink  of  love 

From  hearts  which  trusted  in  him,  and  which  broke 

When  he  betrayed.     His  ears  shall  long  to  hear 

Loved  voices  whose  dear  tones  for  him  are  hushed. 

His  heart  shall  ache  with  wounds  which  know  no  cure, 

His  anguished  eyes  weep  for  the  blessed  sight 

Of  faces  he  shall  look  upon  no  more. 

For  him  there  is  a  place  by  no  man's  hearth, 

A  shelter  for  his  head  'neath  no  man's  roof; 

No  sinless  woman  on  his  breast  shall  lie, 

Around  his  knee  no  happy  children  sport. 

They  who  beneath  the  shadow  of  his  life 

Shall  dare  to  rest,  its  upas  blight  must  bear. 


Il6  THE   MURDERER. 

He  lives  and  yet  is  dead  ;  for  lo  !  his  days 

Which  the  Lord  God  did  give  him  in  the  land 

Are  desolate.     They  lie  like  some  fair  field 

Across  whose  harvest  the  consuming  fire  has  swept, 

And  left  destruction  in  its  scathing  track. 

With  none  to  love,  too  vile  to  be  beloved, 

A  wretched  wanderer  upon  the  earth, 

Like  Ishmael  of  old  his  hand  is  raised 

'Gainst  every  man,  and  each  man's  hand  'gainst  him. 


WE    TWA. 

SIDE  by  side  sit  John  and  I, 
Twa  autumn  leaves  thegither, 
And  ilka  blast  that  shakes  the  ane 

Is  cruel  to  the  ither. 
The  wind  about  our  door  is  cauld, 

Life's  fires  are  burned  to  embers  ; 
The  only  sun  that  shines  for  us 
Is  burly,  bleak  November's. 

The  years  now  left  us  crutches  are, 

On  which  we  totter  slowly 
Toward  that  rest  that's  ready  for 

The  lofty  and  the  lowly. 
But  as  we  hobble  side  by  side, 

An'  gang  our  gait  sae  cheerly, 
We  baith  find  time  to  whisper  yet, 

"  We  lo'e  ane  'ither  dearly." 

An'  mony  a  canty  hour  we  pass, 

Our  early  days  recallin', 
When  all  Life's  roses  buddin'  were, 

Whose  petals  now  are  fallin'. 

117 


US  WE    TWA. 

In  memory's  shade  we  sit  us  doun, 
Youth  in  our  hearts  sits  singin', 

An'  John  ance  mair  a  bridegroom  is — 
My  wedding  bells  are  ringin'. 


An'  thus  upon  our  brows  the  bleeze 

Of  ither  years  to  woo  us, 
We  hold  ane  'ither's  hand  and  think 

How  gude  God  has  been  to  us  ; 
How  He  has  kept  our  hearts  sae  true, 

And  held  the  sunshine  o'er  us, 
An'  taught  us  when  he  sent  a  cloud 

He  knew  what  best  was  for  us. 


We  mind  how  little  faces  gleamed, 

An'  little  hands  caressed  us, 
Lang  syne,  when  in  our  sturdy  youth 

Our  gracious  Father  blessed  us. 
We  mind  us  how  we  buried  them 

Wi'  grief  an'  tears  at  even  ; 
We  hid  the  root  on  earth — the  bloom 

The  angels  culled  in  heaven. 


We  thought  our  hearts  lo'ed  weel  before 

To  ane  anither  plighted, 
But  they  were  never  twins  we  found 

Till  grief  had  them  united. 
Joy's  fading  archway  may  be  bright 

For  light  hearts  to  pass  under, 
But  mutual  sorrows  weave  the  ties 

Which  this  waiT  canna'  sunder. 


WE    TWA.  119 

So,  jogging  onward  step  by  step, 

Though  Life's  young  fires  are  embers, 
We  find  there's  warmth  sufficient  left 

To  thaw  our  iced  Novembers. 
For  lo'e  can  warm  an'  lo'e  can  cheer 

And  lo'e  can  ope  the  portal, 
Now  locked  by  Life's  auld  rusty  key, 

Which  leads  to  bliss  immortal. 


WOMAN'S    WORK. 

DARNING  little  stockings 
For  restless  little  feet, 
Washing  little  faces 

To  keep  them  clean  and  sweet, 
Hearing  Bible  lessons. 
Teaching  catechism, 
Praying  for  salvation 

From  heresy  and  schism — 
Woman's  work ! 

Sewing  on  the  buttons, 

Overseeing  rations, 
Soothing  with  a  kind  word 

Others'  lamentations. 
Guiding  clumsy  Bridgets 

And  coaxing  sullen  cooks, 
Entertaining  company 

And  reading  recent  books — 
Woman's  work  ! 

Burying  out  of  sight 

Her  own  unhealing  smarts, 

Letting  in  the  sunshine 
On  other  clouded  hearts  ; 

120 


WOMAN'S    WORK.  1 21 

Binding  up  the  wounded 

And  healing  of  the  sick, 
Bravely  marching  onward 

Through  dangers  dark  and  thick — 
Woman's  work ! 

Leading  little  children 

And  blessing  manhood's  years, 
Showing  to  the  sinful 

How  God's  forgiveness  cheers  ; 
Scattering  sweet  roses 

Along  another's  path, 
Smiling  by  the  wayside, 

Content  with  what  she  hath — 
Woman's  work ! 

Letting  fall  her  own  tears 

Where  only  God  can  see, 
Wiping  off  another's 

With  tender  sympathy  ; 
Learning  by  experience, 

Teaching  by  example, 
Yearning  for  the  gateway, 

Golden,  pearly,  ample — 
Woman's  work ! 

Lastly  cometh  silence, 

A  day  of  deep  repose — 
Her  locks  smoothly  braided 

Upon  her  breast  a  rose  ; 
Lashes  resting  gently 

Upon  the  marble  cheek, 
A  look  of  blessed  peace 

Upon  the  forehead  meek  ! 


WOMAN'S    WORK. 

Pale  hands  softly  folded, 

The  kindly  pulses  still ; 
The  lips  know  no  smiling, 

The  noble  heart  no  thrill : 
Her  couch  needs  no  smoothing, 

She  craveth  for  no  care  ; 
Love's  tenderest  entreaty 

Wakes  no  responses  there. 

Fresh  grave  in  the  valley — 

Tears,  bitter  sobs,  regret ; 
One  more  solemn  lesson 

That  life  may  not  forget. 
Face  for  ever  hidden, 

Race  for  ever  run — 
'  Dust  to  dust,"  a  voice  saith, 

And  woman's  work  is  done. 


THE    MARCH    SNOW-STORM. 


T 


but  yesterday  morn, 
When,  with  banner  all  torn, 
The  old  warrior,  Winter,  received  his  conge  ; 
And  sounding  the  rally 
O'er  hill-top  and  valley, 

He  gathered  his  forces  from  slow  water-courses, 
From  meadow  and  mountain  and  frozen-up  fountain  ; 
Then  shut  in  his  breath 
'Twixt  his  icy  old  teeth, 
And  grumblingly  sauntered  away, 

He  did ; 
Grumbled  and  sauntered  away. 

Then  down  the  dale  dancing, 

And  up  the  glen  glancing, 
Came  light-footed  Spring  and  kissed  the  bleak  wold — 

Glanced  up  in  surprise 

At  the  cloud-covered  skies, 

Waved  her  swe'et-scented  hand  o'er  the  frost-laden  land  ; 
Then  merrily  rallied  the  crocuses  pallid, 

That  sullen  and  rigid 

Lay  frozen  and  frigid  ; 
And  she  shivered  to  find  it  so  cold 

In  her  realm — 
Shivered  and  burst  into  tears ! 

123 


124  THE  MARCH  SNOW-STORM. 

Then  back  on  his  path, 

With  demon-like  wrath, 
Whirled  wary  old  Winter,  and  scattered  her  train. 

With  ice-pointed  lances 

He  froze  up  her  glances ; 
Then  mounting  his  forces  on  icicle  horses, 
On  his  icy-cold  brow  placed  his  pale  crown  of  snow, 

And  defied  vanquished  Spring 

To  o'erthrow  the  ice-king — 
Defied  her,  and  frigidly  mounted  again 

His  throne — 
His  icy  and  frosty  old  throne. 

And  Spring,  timid  creature. 

With  fear  in  each  feature, 
Her  sceptre  resigned  to  the  sturdy  old  king ; 

Then  fled  in  dismay 

From  valleys  away, 

Sending  wails  of  despair  on  the  frost-bitten  air ; 
While,  with  snow  on  the  hills  and  ice  in  the  rills, 

His  army  in  mail 

Guai'ding  every  dale, 
Winter  looks  over  his  shoulder  at  Spring, 

And  laughs — 
Laughs  at  the  victory  won. 


DESERTED, 
i. 

SHE  was  a  young  wife  once, 
Full  of  trust, 

Believing  love's  virgin  gold 
Could  not  rust. 

ii. 

She  knelt  her  at  Christ's  feet, 

Young  and  strong, 
And  made  her  vows,  and  dreamed 

Not  of  wrong. 


Her  footsteps  fell  on  flowers, 

And  her  eyas 
Saw  only  rosy  paths, 

Sunny  skies. 


Ah  !  how  one  kind  voice  blessed 

The  sweet  air ! 
How  fondly  one  kind  hand 

Stroked  her  hair ! 

125 


126  DESERTED. 

V. 
Does  any  dare  to  say 

Clouds  will  rise  ? 
Her  trusting,  wifely  smile 

Doubt  defies. 

VI. 

Can  clouds  bedim  such  faith, 

Such  fond  trust? 
Never,  till  death  shall  lay 

Dust  to  dust. 

VII. 

Years  pass — she  is  not  yet 

An  old  wife, 
But  time  has  stolen  the  sweets 

From  her  life. 

VIII. 

No  roses  for  her  now  ; 

Only  snow 
Lies  c'old  wherever  flowers 

Used  to  grow — 

IX. 

Pale  snow  that  drifts  and  drifts, 

Day  by  day, 
Through  hollows  of  her  heart, 

Nor  melts  away. 

x. 

Her  trustful,  sweet  young  life 

Thus  has  died ; 
Nailed  to  Love's  cruel  cross, 

Crucified. 


TO    GUY. 

AS  rivers  which  their  sources  find 
In  mountain  summits  parted  wide, 
Yet  meet  at  last  and  find  the  sea 
In  one  commingled  common  tide — 

So  we,  of  different  birth  and  blood, 

Strangers  for  years  our  course  did  run, 

Till  Fate  the  parted  pulses  found, 
And  swept  the  swift  tides  into  one  ! 

127 


DO    ANGELS    WEEP? 


UP  from  the  earth  can  worldly  woes  arise, 
Piercing  the  starry  canopy  above, 
To  wound  the  spotless  souls  of  Paradise, 

And  wring  stern  sorrow  from  those  hearts  of  love  ? 
Oh  tell  me,  spirit  watchers  of  my  sleep  ! 
In  yon  fair  heaven  do  the  angels  weep  ? 


Say,  can  those  pearl-winged  messengers  of  peace 
Bend  their  bright  brows  o'er  sorrow's  shaded  hearth 

Bring  to  the  bruised  heart  its  blest  release, 

And  mingle  heavenly  tears  with  tears  of  earth  ? 

Tell  me,  O  ye  who  saintly  vigils  keep 

With  mortal  mourners !  do  the  angels  weep  ? 

Comes  there  swift  rushing  from  its  spirit-home 
Some  beaming  seraph  for  each  child  of  sin, 

Wooing  the  restless,  troubled  heart  to  come 
And  fold  itself  her  cleansing  wing  within  ? 

Say,  ye  who  heaven's  golden  harvest  reap  ! 

O'er  earthly  errors  do  the  angels  weep  ? 

128 


DO  ANGELS    WEEP!  129 

How  vast  a  truth,  for  mortals  here  to  know 

That  they  who  sound  the  heavenly  harps  can  mourn  ! 

That  for  each  sin  the  human  heart  doth  sow 
A  tear-drop  in  some  seraph's  breast  is  born  ! 

Oh  what  temptation  o'er  the  soul  could  sweep, 

Nerving  the  heart  to  make  an  angel  weep  ? 
I 


INGEMISCO. 


dying  day 
JL.     Wrapped  in  its  sunset  banners  lay 

Fading,  fading : 

There,  wordless  both,  we  watched  it  going, 
With  coldness  on  our  two  hearts  snowing, 
And  silence  out  of  silence  growing, 

Shading,  shading 
All  our  lives  with  its  chill  flowing. 

Parted  for  ever, 

We  stood  together 
Among  the  hills  of  purple  heather. 


There,  side  by  side, 
We  saw  the  sweet  day  when  it  died 

Sadly,  sadly. 

We  heard  the  songs  of  twilight  birds, 
The  tinkling  bells  of  twilight  herds, 
All  things  save  one  another's  words, 

Gladly,  gladly — 
Softening  our  aching  heart's  discords. 


INGEMISCO.  131 

Parted  for  ever, 
We  walked  together 
Among  the  purple  blooming  heather. 


We  heard  the  hum 
Of  evening's  hidden  minstrels  come 

Creeping,  creeping 

From  hill-top,  tree-top,  shore  and  stream, 
As  if  e'en  silence  found  a  theme 
In  evening's  loveliness  supreme  ! 

Weeping,  weeping : 
Our  souls  awaked  from  life's  best  dream  ! 

Parted  for  ever, 

We  passed  together 
Across  the  blooming  waves  of  heather. 


Our  hearts  were  numb, 

Our  passionate  lips  were  stricken  dumb- 
Throbbing,  throbbing ; 

Our  burning  pulses  shook  their  tears 

Across  the  unforgotten  years 

Of  tender  hopes  and  slumbering  fears. 
Robbing,  robbing 

Life  of  all  that  life  endears — 
Parted  for  ever, 
We  crossed  together 

The  scented  shadows  of  the  heather. 


132  INGEMISCO. 


One  swift  look  cast — 
One  mute  appeal — the  last,  the  last ! 

Parted,  parted, 

Two  hands  which  ne'er  shall  clasp  again. 
Two  hearts  that  breaking  hide  their  pain — 
Pride  stabbed  our  love  and  it  was  slain ! 

Frozen-hearted, 
Two  God-bound  lives  world-rent  in  twain  ! 

Parted  for  ever, 

No  more  together 
We  cross  the  fragrant  seas  of  heather ! 


THE    OLD    WILLOW    TREE. 

IT  waves  in  its  loftiness  close  by  the  door 
Where  my  little  lips  lisped  their  accents  of  yore, 
Where  my  young  brother  played — and  a  mother's  hand 

bound 

The  wreath  on  the  forehead  that  loved  to  be  crowned  ; 
It  stands  in  its  pride  by  the  moss-verdured  well 
Where  the  rainbow-hued  water-drops  musically  fell, 
While  the  accents  of  childhood's  dispassionate  glee 
Rang  up  through  the  leaves  of  the  old  willow  tree. 

It  spreads  its  broad  branches  far,  far  o'er  the  spot 
Which  saw  us  assembled,  each  eve,  in  our  cot, 
Where  the  eyes  of  affection  devotedly  met, 
And  kind  words  were  spoken  I  ne'er  can  forget. 
'Neath  its  sheltering  arms,  in  the  soft  summer  air, 
Rose  softly  and  sweetly  our  voices  in  prayer, 
And  hushed  as  a  breeze  o'er  a  calm  summer  sea 
Rose  our  words  through  the  leaves  of  the  old  willow 
tree. 

It  saw  my  sweet  sister  go  forth  in  her  pride ; 
Her  beautiful  cheek  bore  the  blush  of  a  bride  ; 

12  133 


134  THE    OLD    WILLOW  TREE. 

Her  eyes  flashed  with  pleasure,  her  rosy  lips  smiled 
As    a    mother's    fond    blessing    there    hallowed    her 

child  ; 

It  saw  that  lip  sadden,  that  eye  drop  a  tear, 
As  the  parting  from  home  and  its  loved  ones  drew 

near ; 

But  the  birds  and  the  branches  with  voices  of  glee 
Filled  with  music  the  leaves  of  the  old  willow  tree. 

It  saw  my  brave  brother  become  a  proud  man, 
Of  loftiest  purpose  and  resolute  plan  ; 
It  saw  him  launch  forth  on  the  waves  of  the  world, 
Like  a  stem  from  the  parent  tree  ruthlessly  hurled  ; 
It  saw  him  borne  back,  all  his  high  hopes  at  rest, 
With  the  pulseless  young  heart  that  lay  cold  in  his 
breast ; 

0  God  !  his  last  parting  was  spoken  to  me 
'Neath  the  listening  leaves  of  the  old  willow  tree. 

1  next  left  the  spot  with  my  brow  overcast, 

And  the  joys  of  my  childhood  for  ever  gone  past ; 

I  had  learned  there  to  know  that  this  world  cannot 

give 

Those  pleasures  for  which  we  all  labor  and  live  : 
With  quivering  lips  thence  I  wandered  away — 
Lips  too  mournful  to  smile,  too  despairing  to  pray ; 
But  I  bore  in  my  bosom  far  o'er  the  blue  sea 
Some  dew-laden  leaves  from  the  old  willow  tree. 

Long  years  have  gone  by  since  I  last  bade  adieu 
'Neath  its  shade  to  the  fond  friends  my  young  spirit 
knew — 


THE    OLD    WILLOW  TREE.  135 

Years  sweeping  their  changes  across  the  hearthstone, 

Where  my  father  and  mother  now  linger  alone. 

How  warm  was  their  blessing,  how  thick  were  their 

tears, 

As  I  clung  to  them  fondly  the  last  time  for  years ! 
Oh  I  feel  in  my  soul  they  are  waiting  for  me 
'Neath  the  whispering  leaves  of  the  old  willow  tree  ! 


ZURA. 

ZURA,  from  her  casement  leaning, 
Hears  the  song  of  mocking-bird, 
Sees  the  laurel  and  laburnum 

By  the  sweet  south  breezes  stirred — 
Sees  the  rose  and  pallid  lily 

Drop  their  faces  from  her  view, 

Half  abashed  and  half  emboldened, 

Dainty  tipplers  drunk  with  dew. 

Zura  shakes  her  dusky  tresses 

Backward  from  her  forehead  white. 
And  with  parted  lips  she  drinketh 

Of  the  glory  of  the  night — 
Revels  in  its  waste  of  verdure, 

In  its  prodigal  perfume  ; 
While  the  royal-hearted  Southland 

Holds  its  carnival  of  bloom. 

Zura  sees  the  moon  of  midnight 

O'er  her  airy  ocean  ride, 
As  some  ship  that  drags  her  anchor 

And  goes  drifting  with  the  tide — 

136 


ZURA.  137 


Here  and  there  a  silent  meteor 
On  its  secret  mission  flies, 

Flaunting  its  mysterious  pennon — 
Blockade-runner  of  the  skies. 


Zura  hears  a  footstep  falling 

On  the  blossom-scented  sod, 
And  her  heart  throws  kisses  softly, 

Shyly  where  that  foot  hath  trod. 
Hark  !  the  tender  notes  of  minstrel 

With  the  blossoms  interlace, 
And  her  Creole  blood  goes  bounding 

In  swift  blushes  to  her  face. 


1  To  the  starry  high  seas,  maiden, 

Lift  the  glory  of  thine  eyes ; 
There  they'll  find  in  all  thaf  s  brightest 

Than  themselves  no  brighter  prize  ; 
See  the  red  rose  where  its  petals 

Night's  narcotic  goblet  sips  ; 
Were  its  crimson  hues  and  sweetness 

Borrowed  from  thy  sweeter  lips? 


"  See  the  fair  Wisteria  casting 

Purple  pennons  to  the  breeze — 
Round  about  thy  casement  climbing — • 

Tell  me,  maiden,  what  it  sees. 
Does  it  kiss  thy  young  cheek,  Zura  ? 

Does  it  look  thee  in  the  eye  ? 
Does  it  see  thy  bosom  heaving? 

Ah  !  most  enviable  spy  ! 
12* 


ZURA. 

Birds  of  spring,  in  grove  of  orange 

Nests  have  built  amid  the  bloom  ; 
Caskets  holding  treasure  hidden 

In  a  palace  of  perfume. 
Scented  orchards  drip  their  sweetness 

On  the  violet's  royal  bed 
Of  veined  gold  and  princely  purple — 

Stars  eternal  overhead. 


"  In  the  maze  of  bloom  the  zephyrs 

Whisper  they  have  lost  their  way — 
Of  her  own  exceeding  sweetness, 

Night  herself  must  faint  away. 
Buds  and  bloom  and  dewy  blossoms, 

Light  of  moon  and  spreading  grove, 
Ray  of  star  and  wing  of  zephyr, 

Whisper,  dearest,  but  of  love — 

"  Love  such  as  I  bear  thee,  Zura : 

Answer  me  with  smile  or  sigh, 
Wilt  give  love  for  love,  my  darling  ?" 

Softly  came  the  answer,  "  Fie  !" 
Sang  again  the  pleading  minstrel : 

"  Maiden,  trifle  not  with  love  ; 
"Pis  the  signet-ring  of  heaven 

Dropped  from  angel  hands  above. 

"  Fly  with  me,  O  Zura  !  maiden, 

Thine  shall  be  earth's  brightest  bowers, 
And  the  universe  shall  know  no 
Fairer  resting-place  than  ours. 


ZURA.  139 

In  the  ever-blooming  Tropics 

We  will  find  our  paradise — 
Thine  in  my  supreme  devotion  ; 

Mine,  dear  love,  in  thy  sweet  eyes. 


'Round  the  feet  of  Time,  the  tyrant, 

Rosy  shackles  shall  be  hung — 
That  we  hear  him  not  in  passing, 

And  remain  for  ever  young. 
Birds  uncaged  in  bowers  of  beauty 

Shall  to  music  set  each  day ; 
Wilt  thou  come,  my  own,  my  Zura  ?" 

Coyly  came  the  answer,  "  Nay." 


1  Falsehood,  then,"  the  minstrel  mutters, 

"  Fills  the  earth  and  fills  the  skies, 
Turns  Hymettian  sweets  to  poison, 

Lurketh  in  a  maiden's  eyes  ; 
Makes  her  honeyed  lip  taste  bitter, 

Sours  the  sweetness  of  her  cheek, 
Chokes  within  its  treacherous  fingers 

Joys  that  would  her  bosom  seek. 

Robs  the  rose  of  all  its  beauty, 

In  the  orange  blossom  hides  !" 
Came  a  whisper  drifting  toward  him  : 

"  Orange  blossoms  are  for  brides !" 
Swift  a  new  hope,  like  an  arrow, 

Shot  across  the  minstrel's  brain — 
And  with  trembling  lip  he  gathered 

Up  his  broken  song  again  ; 


14°  ZURA. 

And  again  the  tuneful  measure 

Floated  far  and  floated  free, 
Mingling  its  impassioned  cadence 

With  love's  sweet  hyperbole  : 
"  I  will  steep  my  song  in  dewdrops 

Till  it  win  thee  to  my  side — 
I  will  braid  the  midnight  moonbeams, 

Zura,  sweet,  to  crown  thee  bride. 

"  I  will  wrap  thy  fair  existence 

In  the  mantle  of  my  life — 
Proudly  guard  its  precious  pulses 

With  the  sacred  watchword — wife  ; 
With  the  heart-beats  in  my  bosom 

For  thy  feet  I'll  pave  the  way — 
Wilt  thou  bless  me,  Zura,  maiden?" 

Gently  came  the  answer,  "  Yea  !" 

Then  a  light  form  from  the  casement 

In  the  moonlight  bendeth  low  ; 
Orange  blossoms,  dew  and  roses  ! 

What  new  secret  do  ye  know  ? 
Heart  of  maid  and  heart  of  minstrel 

Joy  triumphant  sentinels — 
Over  all  the  stars  are  hanging — 

Beautiful  betrothal-bells. 


A    REVERIE. 

THE  Past !     How  mournfully  its  tides  return 
And  break  on  memory's  melancholy  shore  ; 
Quenching  the  watchfires  of  the  soul,  which  burn, 

Kindled  by  cherished  flowers  whose  bloom  is  o'er. 
Each  wave  that  dashes  'gainst  the  aching  heart 

Tells  of  some  withered  hope,  some  joy  that's  crushed, 
Some  silent  song  whose  echoes  ne'er  depart, 
Some  voice  we  dearly  loved  for  ever  hushed  ! 

How  fraught  with  change,  with  sorrow  and  decay, 

Come  back  the  pictures  of  departed  years  ! 
How  many  graves  obstruct  Thought's  loving  way  ! 

How  hearts  have  changed — how  smiles  have  turned 

to  tears ! 
And  all  succeeding  days  which  gently  rest, 

As  tide-worn  pebbles,  on  Time's  fading  shore, 
Wear  their  impressions  sadly  in  the  breast, 

Which  yearns  for  pleasures  that  return  no  more. 

Love,  that  we  deemed  enduring  in  its  strength, 
Falters  when  most  we  wish  it  to  be  strong, 

And  hearts  we  thought  unchanging  change  at  length, 
And  cease  to  love  where  they  have  loved  so  long. 

141 


H2  A   REVERIE. 

Thus  are  our  spirits  taught  to  turn  from  earth, 
From  wounded  love  and  coldly-severed  ties, 

To  seek  that  peace  which  wins  its  blessed  birth 
In  the  unsullied  land  beyond  the  skies ! 


THE    BANDIT'S  BURIAL. 
FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    FREILIGRATH. 

ON  bloody  bier  extended 
A  corpse  lay  cold  and  wan  ; 
The  heavy  burden,  slowly, 

Six  stalwart  men  bore  on — 
Six  men  all  bronzed  and  bearded, 
Well  armed  with  steel  and  lead. 
Through  odorous  pine  forests 
Bore  on  their  silent  dead. 

Two  brightly-polished  muskets, 

With  barrels  round  and  clear, 
Crossed  by  three  stout  rapiers, 

Composed  this  forest  bier. 
Upon  their  blades  the  bandit, 

Once  fiercest  in  the  fray, 
With  ghastly  head  thrown  backward, 

Now  bruised  and  bleeding  lay. 

Upon  his  pulseless  temples 

A  gaping  wound  lay  red, 
Where  on  its  fatal  mission 

The  deadly  bullet  sped  : 

143 


144  THE  BANDIT'S  BURIAL. 

Across  his  frowning  forehead 
Fast  flowed  the  stiffening  gore, 

While  mountain  breezes  fanned  the  face 
They  could  refresh  no  more. 


His  bloodshot  eye  was  glassy 

His  cheek's  brown  hue  had  flown, 
And  to  the  livid  lips  in  death 

His  scornful  smile  had  grown. 
The  blade,  once  bold  in  combat, 

The  right  hand  tightly  held 
With  grasp  that  would  not  loosen 

When  conquering  foeman  felled. 


O'er  stones  and  tangled  mosses 

From  his  last  battle-field, 
The  brigand  drew  unheeded 

The  sword  he'd  scorned  to  yield 
And  down  its  blade  so  shining 

A  bloody  streamlet  ran, 
As  though  the  very  weapon 

Wept  for  the  murdered  man. 

His  left  hand,  cold  and  stiffened, 

His  silken  girdle  held 
In  grasp  that  clutched  it  sternly 

When  death  his  pulses  quelled. 
Gold  lace  and  tinsel  loosely 

Waved  his  slashed  doublet  o'er, 
And  in  his  belt  the  dagger 

That  would  be  drawn  no  more. 


THE  BANDIT'S  BURIAL.  145 

So  lay  the  pallid  warrior 

Beneath  the  gloomy  pines, 
While  comrades  bore  him  sadly 

Through  the  dark  Apennines. 
Calm  on  his  bier  of  weapons 

He  slept  'neath  heaven's  blue  vault, 
Till  in  the  forest's  deepest  depths 

Their  leader  bade  them  halt. 

In  solemn  mountain  fastness 

Down  the  rude  bier  was  laid, 
And  sabre  bright  and  musket 

Now  serve  for  pick  and  spade. 
They  shut  him  in  no  coffin, 

Lost,  lonely,  loveless,  dead  ; 
Shrouded  in  blood  and  armor, 

He  seeks  his  dreamless  bed. 

The  funeral  rites  are  over, 

The  grave  swells  black  and  bare  ; 
The  little  troop  turn  silently 

And  leave  him  sleeping  there. 
They  load  their  trusty  muskets — 

Hark  to  that  whistle  shrill ! 
In  secret  mountain  coverts 

They  have  vanished — all  is  still ! 
13  K 


THE    LION'S    RIDE. 
FROM  THE  GERMAN   OF  FREILIGRATH. 

I. 

THE    desert    king,    the   lion,   comes   to  roam   his 
kingdom  o'er ; 

Above   him  wave  the   rustling    leaves  of   lofty  syca- 
more, 
As,  winding  near  the  dark  lagoon,  he  crouches  in  the 

cane, 

And  waits  to  see  the  tall  giraffe  come  there  to  drink 
again. 


'Tis   evening,  when   the   Hottentot   his  lowly  village 

lights, 
When  sunset  signals  gleam  no  more  upon  the  mountain 

heights, 
When    the    benighted    CafFre    dreary   jungle    hurries 

through, 
When  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  sleep  antelope 

and  gnu — 

146 


THE  LION'S  RIDE.  147 


Comes   now   with   step   majestic   o'er   the   desert   the 

giraffe, 
And  in  the  still  lagoon  kneels  down  its  waters  thick  to 

quaff; 
With  eager  eye  and   outstretched  neck  she  seeks  the 

muddy  pool, 
And   lowly  bends   her  burning  mouth  and   parching 

tongue  to  cool. 


The  rushes  part !   with  fearful  roar  the  lion  upward 

springs ; 
Close  to  that  bowed  and  gentle  neck  with  deadly  grip 

he  clings. 

What  a  steed  and  what  a  rider  !  what  superb  caparison  ! 
Did  royal  state  or  stable  ever  claim  a  rarer  one  ? 


Up  leaps  the  doomed  giraffe  with  wild,  reverberating 
cry, 

And  forth  upon  the  silent  plain  speeds  in  her  agony ; 

All  down  the  splendid  housings  drops  a  deep  ensan- 
guined stain, 

And  the  charger's  breast  is  curtained  by  the  rider's 
yellow  mane ! 


She  beats  the  moonlit  pathway  with  her  swiftly-flying 

feet, 
Her  glaring  eyeballs  vainly  strained  some  kindly  aid  to 

meet; 


148  THE   LION'S  RIDE. 

Thick  o'er  the  brown-flecked  saddle-cloth  the   heated 

foam  doth  start, 
And  the  hushed  desert  listens  to  the  charger's  beating 

heart. 


Like  some  weird  ghost  that  panting  steed  glides  o'er 

the  sandy  sea  ; 

Spread  on  the  wind  the  rider's  banner  floateth  royally  ; 
Behind   the  flying  phantom  whirls  a  golden  cloud  of 

sand, 
Like    the    pillared    cloud    which  guided    Israel  to  the 

Promised  Land. 


Comes  on  their  track  the  whirring  vulture,  croaking 

through  the  air ; 

That  foul  profaner  of  the  grave,  the  hyena,  is  there  ; 
The  robber  of  the  herdsman's  flocks,  the  panther,  joins 

the  train, 
And  the  royal  rider  leads  them  all  across  the  bloody 

plain. 


Firmer  upon  his  tottering  throne  the  monarch  plants  his 

feet, 
And  with  his  claws  the  cushion  rends  which  forms  his 

princely  seat: 

Her  restless  rider  onward  still  the  poor  giraffe  must  bear, 
Though  dimmer  grow  her  glaring  eyes,  and  faint  her 

gaspings  are. 


THE  LION'S  RIDE.  149 

X. 

On  the  desert's  lonely  verge  at  last  the  foaming  steed 

doth  reel — 
She  dies,  and  lo  !  the  courser  now  becomes  the  rider's 

meal. 

Far  over  Madagascar  gleams  the  gray  dawn  of  the  east, 
And  once  again  is  ended  here  the  lion's  nightly  feast. 
13* 


ELODIE 


I  KNEW  somebody,  long  ago, 
Ere  life  grew  sad  and  time  grew  slow — 
I  will  tell  you  whom,  if  you  list  to  me, 
And  forgive  if  I  weep  for  Elodie. 
She  was  a  rose  without  a  thorn, 
A  blush  on  the  blooming  cheek  of  morn, 
A  dimple  upon  life's  sunniest  stream, 
A  bliss,  a  breath,  a  beautiful  dream. 

Under  the  autumn's  nut-brown  branches, 

Under  the  leafy  avalanches, 

Blushing,  brightening,  laughing,  swaying, 

Ever  going,  yet  ever  staying, 

There  I  met  her,  loved  her,  wooed  her, 

Idolizingly  pursued  her, 

Laid  my  lavish  love  before  her, 

Hung  the  bridal  chaplet  o'er  her  ! 


Life  was  a  double  joy  to  me, 
Wrapped  in  love's  holy  mystery. 
150 


ELODIE.  151 

In  a  new-made  channel  the  current  swept, 

With  a  new-born  power  my  pulses  leapt ; 
Two  eyes  of  blue  were  the  heaven  I  sought ; 
Beyond  those  sapphire  gates  there  was  naught : 
In  life's  sweet  dawn  love  chained  me  there, 
But  the  fetters  were  golden  he  made  me  wear. 

Like  shaken  sunshine  swung  her  tresses, 

Hiding  the  arms  that  gave  caresses  ; 

A  drift  with  sunset  red  upon  it 

Her  brow  was  when  my  kiss  fell  on  it. 

She  was  a  picture  half  enchanted, 

A  temple  by  some  angel  haunted  ; 

I  would  not  confess  her  all  divine  : 

She  was  holily  human — she  was  mine  ! 


Mine,  did  I  say?     I  called  her  so 

In  loving  lunacy  long  ago  : 

In  earth  below  or  heaven  above 

Was  there  aught  so  strong  as  my  strong  love  ? 

My  arm  that  shielded,  my  heart  that  shrined, 

My  soul  round  that  fragile  flowret  twined  ; 

Could  they  not  shelter  and  save  and  shield, 

Do  all — do  everything  but  yield  ? 

I  heard  not  Death's  cold  tapping  finger, 

Bidding  my  love  no  longer  linger ; 

For  me,  in  my  mad  idolatry, 

Life  had  no  limit,  heaven  no  decree. 

I  never  remembered  my  rose  might  fade, 

I  dreamed  such  blossoms  never  decayed  ; 

Till  her  sweet  lips  smiled,  and  said,  "  We  sever,' 

Till  her  fond  blue  eyes  were  closed  for  ever ! 


152  ELODIE. 


Under  the  swinging,  swaying  willow 
They  made  her  icy,  icy  pillow  ! 
I,  like  a  tombstone,  bending  o'er, 
Wretched  that  I  went  not  before, 
Record  her  death,  her  name,  her  age 
Upon  my  heart's  embittered  page, 
And  see  the  tear-wet  sod  grow  green 
My  life's  one  love  and  me  between ! 
Yet  God,  who  took  my  idol  hence, 
Gave,  in  his  grand  omnipotence, 
Belief  to  fill  the  empty  niche — 
Thus  he  impoverished  to  enrich. 
Calmly  I  wait  Death's  certain  hand 
To  ope  the  gates  of  the  holy  land, 
Where,  purified,  my  soul  shall  see 
In  heaven  my  angel,  Elodie. 


SONG. 

COME,  haste  thee  home  ;  the  lamp  is  trimmed, 
An  anxious  heart  is  throbbing  there, 
And  loving  eyes,  with  tear-drops  dimmed, 
Are  gazing  on  thy  empty  chair. 

Oh  haste  thee  home  ;  a  tender  smile 

Shall  chase  the  care-look  from  thy  brow, 

While  love  and  joy  the  time  beguile 
Which  passes  there  so  slowly  now. 

The  fire  burns  brightly  on  the  hearth, 

The  cricket  chirps  its  monotone, 
And  one  who  loves  thee  best  of  earth 

Awaits  thee  there,  and  waits  alone. 

While  red  the  flickering  fire-flames  glow, 

The  watcher  notes  her  shadow  fall, 
And  waits  the  absent  one  to  throw 

One  more  beside  it  on  the  wall ! 


154  SONG. 

She  watches  by  the  cottage  door, 
She  lingers  by  the  garden  gate, 

And  speaks  thy  dear  name  o'er  and  o'er, 
Like  some  lone  bird  that  calls  its  mate. 

Then  haste  thee  home  ;  the  lamp  is  trimmed, 
A  loving  heart  is  throbbing  there, 

And  gentle  eyes,  with  tear-drops  dimmed, 
Are  gazing  on  thy  empty  chair. 


BY    THE    FIRE. 


MEMORY  sits  in  ray  heart  to-night, 
Like  a  lone  saint  telling  her  holy  beads 
In  the  dim  cloisters  of  long  ago  ; 

She  opens  the  book  of  the  past  and  reads. 


She  turns  the  leaves  of  my  lonely  life, 

And  my  years  in  a  slow  and  solemn  procession 

Go  steadily  by,  like  a  train  of  monks 

That  pass  on  their  evening  way  to  confession. 

There  are  young  years  whose  summery  skies 
Lift  their  arches  blue  o'er  a  life  serene : 

No  sorrowful  willow  woven  among 
The  beautiful  bay  trees'  hopeful  green. 


And  years  of  darkening  change  march  there, 
Which  bear  no  trace  of  life's  early  sweet, 

And  cowled  years  which  join  in  the  train 
With  lowered  brows  and  unwilling  feet. 

155 


156  BY   THE   FIRE. 

And  all  these  years  have  their  friends  and  foes 
As  pensive  Memory's  guests  to-night : 

She  raises  her  calm  blue  eyes  and  smiles 
As  with  noiseless  step  they  come  in  sight. 

And  thou  art  there,  O  tenderest  dream 
That  ever  my  lifetime  came  to  share ! 

Sweet  as  the  smile  on  an  infant's  lip — 
Exalting,  earnest  and  pure  as  prayer. 

We  seem  once  more  to  sit  side  by  side 

Down  by  the  warm  hearth's  mellow  light, 

And  the  old  love-links  we  deemed  so  strong 
Seem  just  as  strong  as  ever  to-night ! 

What  does  the  cold  world  know  of  the  storm 
Which  drove  us  helpless  far  out  to  sea, 

Where  the  turbulent  billows  rose  like  hills 
For  ever  and  aye  'twixt  you  and  me  ? 

It  may  read  of  wrecks  and  storm-swept  decks, 
And  of  white  sails  sadly  driven  asunder, 

But  little  it  knows  of  the  joys  or  woes 

Which  the  merciless  billows  have  swept  under. 

Through  every  change  and  every  care 
My  heart  to  that  early  dream  has  clung- 

But  I  know  that  the  sweetest  psalmody 
Of  all  my  changeful  life  has  been  sung. 

I  shall  hear  life's  matin-peals  no  more 
Across  the  flowery  meadows  rolling  ; 

Just  over  the  lonesome  twilight  hills 
I  hear  the  vesper-bells  all  tolling. 


BY  THE  FIRE.  1 57 

And  I  stand  to-night  by  the  gloomy  rocks 
Of  a  solemn  and  ever-echoing  shore, 

Calling  in  vain  for  the  glance  and  smile 
Which  have  vanished,  alas  !  for  evermore. 

But  I  hear  thy  voice  on  the  other  side, 
And  I  know  the  hour  mine  soon  will  be 

When  Death  shall  divide  the  Red  Sea  of  Time, 
And  my  ransomed  spirit  cross  over  to  thee. 

14 


INSCRIPTION    FOR    A    TOMB. 

HERE  have  we  gathered,  with  a  reverent  hand, 
The  sacred  shackles  that  a  while  detained 
An  angel  from  the  paths  of  Paradise. 
Death  saw  and  struck  the  mortal  fetters  off, 
And  gave  rejoicing  heaven  back  its  own. 
158 


MARY    MOORE. 

I   KNEW  thee  when  thy  girlish  years  were  few, 
Mary  Moore ; 
When  the  bloomy  blush  upon  thy  cheek  was  new, 

Mary  Moore ; 

When  the  blossoms  in  thy  hair 
Than  thy  brow  were  not  more  fair — 
Sweeter  not  what  thrushes  sung 
Than  the  language  of  thy  tongue, 

Mary  Moore. 

Thy  scarlet  lip  was  winning  in  its  smile, 
Mary  Moore ; 
The  dimple  on  thy  young  cheek  was  a  wile, 

Mary  Moore ; 

And  thy  song  was  like  the  note 
In  the  linnet's  joyous  throat, 
When  it  greets  the  morning's  rays 
With  its  psalmody  of  praise, 

Mary  Moore. 

Side  by  side,  through  the  orchard's  drifting  bloom, 
Mary  Moore ; 

Hand  in  hand,  drenched  in  dewy  spring's  perfume, 
Mary  Moore ; 


1 60  MART  MOORE. 

Heart  with  heart  by  shelly  beach, 
Trusting  silence  for  our  speech — 
Dreaming  youth  and  gentle  maid, 
In  those  sunny  days  we  strayed, 

Mary  Moore. 

While  the  bob-o'-link  shook  his  merry  bells, 

Mary  Moore  ; 

In  the  meadows  and  the  cool  mossy  dells, 
Mary  Moore ; 

Ere  the  summer-time  had  flown, 
Change  thy  gentle  heart  had  known, 
And  thou  bad'st  me,  "  Go,  forget !" 
What  we  both  remember  yet, 

Mary  Moore  ! 

Where  the  bloom  hung  the  fruit  is  on  the  bough, 

Mary  Moore  ; 
The  tender  blade  has  harvests  rip'ning  now, 

Mary  Moore ; 

But  the  thrushes  sing  no  more 
Where  they  sweetly  sang  of  yore, 
And  my  heart  has  learned  to  live 
Without  the  love  thou  couldst  not  give, 
Mary  Moore ! 


MIRABELLE. 


SHE  lay  on  a  crimson  sofa, 
And  the  sheen  of  her  golden  hair 
Hung  down  in  unbraided  beauty 

Over  shoulders  as  snow-flakes  fair. 
A  cloud  on  the  pensive  forehead 

And  a  lift  of  the  arching  brow — 
The  tremor  of  some  emotion 
Flitting  over  the  red  lips  now. 


Two  letters  beside  her  lying — 

One  bearing  a  nobleman's  crest ; 
The  other  without  emblazon, 

Save  a  tremulous  heart's  request. 
The  first  a  coronet  offered 

And  "  position  whilst  thou  dost  live  ;" 
The  next,  "  a  true  heart's  devotion 

Is,  darling,  all  I  can  give." 


"  Wealth  !  'tis  a  marvelous  sceptre 

In  womanly  keeping,"  she  mused, 
And  thought  of  a  coronet  gleaming 

On  her  glorious  locks  unloosed. 
14  *  L  161 


1 62  MIRABELLE. 

"  Gold  !  'tis  a  talisman  mighty, 

And  a  setting  for  beauty  rare  ;" 
Then  smiled  in  the  polished  mirror 
At  herself,  exceedingly  fair. 


The  nobleman  writes  me  kindly, 

With  the  pride  of  his  lofty  race, 
And  in  courtly  language  praises 

My  '  radiant  beauty  and  grace.' 
The  rare  temptation  of  riches 

He  has  skillfully  round  me  thrown, 
But  I  remember  while  reading 

That  his  years  are  double  my  own ; 


"  And  I  note  my  noble  suitor, 

In  essaying  my  heart  to  move, 
Uses  but  the  force  of  money, 

And  never  the  lever  of  love. 
But  Guy  here  writes  to  me  only 

Of  a  love  that  has  grown  with  life ; 
And,  urging  his  strong  affection, 

Sayeth,  '  Mirabelle,  be  my  wife.' 

vi. 

"  Gold  !  it  hath  wonderful  power 

To  soften  the  bitterest  lot ; 
But  could  it  extract  the  poison 

From  a  marriage  where  love  is  not? 


MIRABELLE.  163 


Pride  whispers,  '  To  be  a  fine  lady 
Is  well  in  Ambition's  eyes' — 

To  be  a  true  woman  is  nobler,' 
My  womanly  heart  replies." 


Again  she  lifted  the  letters, 

There  comparing  them  each  with  each — 
The  pompous  parade  of  riches 

With  a  poor  man's  tender  speech. 
For  one  I  should  shine,"  she  whispered, 
"  A  queen  in  the  wary  world's  eyes — 
But  a  beggared  heart  I'd  carry 

Hidden  under  the  grand  disguise ! 


And  I  must  wear,  for  the  other, 

Cold  poverty's  scantiest  gown, 
But  my  heart,  in  his  fond  keeping, 

Would  wear  Love's  rosiest  crown. 
Ah  me  !"  said  the  la'dy  sighing, 

"  Would  that  heart  ever  feel  regret 
That  for  true  love's  flowery  chaplet 

I  rejected  a  coronet? 


"  When  my  cheek  bears  no  more  roses, 

And  my  forehead  knows   youth's  decline, 
Shall  I  mourn  these  proffered  treasures 
And  this  title  which  might  be  mine? 


[64  MIRABELLE. 

Could  I  sit  down  in  Guy's  cottage, 
With  a  tear  on  my  faded  face 

That  in  the  Duke's  passing  carriage 
I  owned  no  luxurious  place  ? 


;  Nay !  my  heart  makes  ready  answer 

To  the  question,  bitter  and  cold ; 
Wealth  is  Life's  fanciful  gilding, 

But  true  love  is  its  solid  gold. 
The  honor  of  honest  labor, 

The  escutcheon  of  industry, 
And  the  crown  of  spotless  virtue, 

Mark  the  real  nobility. 

XI. 

•  Thank  God  that  it  is  not  money 

And  titles  and  title-deeds 
That  can  satisfy  the  craving 

Of  a  woman's  noblest  needs  ! 
Here  is  my  Lord  Duke's  answer, 

And  let  him  not  deem  it  rash" — 
Then  she  watched  the  waxen  taper 

Burn  the  nobleman's  words  to  ash. 


Then  she  wrote  with  a  glad  impatience 

"  Dear  Guy,  I  am  not  one  to  mock 
A  true  heart's  sincere  petition 

With  the  idleness  of  mere  talk. 
With  faith  in  your  noble  nature, 

Sweet  trust  in  your  love — it  is  well : 
Through  life,  until  death,  I  answer, 

I  am  thine  alone — MIRABELLE." 


LITTLE    MAY    BALLARD. 

FOLD  the  white  hands  softly  o'er  the  pure  bosom, 
Clasp  in  her  fingers  earth's  loveliest  flowers : 
Angels  in  Paradise  wait  to  unloose  them 

And  scatter  their  fragrance  through  heavenly  bowers. 
Upward  and  downward,  through  regions  of  space, 

Heralds  of  light  hover  over  the  clay, 
Touching  the  forehead -and  kissing  the  face, 
Calling,  "  Child-angel,  come  with  us  away." 

Seal  the  sweet  eyes  and  fold  back  the  fair  tresses, 

Spirits,  like  hers,  linger  not  here  below  ; 
Angels  but  lent  her  from  angel-caresses 

To  teach  us  the  loveliness  Heaven  doth  know. 
See  ye  not  radiant  faces  of  love  ? 

Hear  ye  no  rustle  of  seraphic  wings  ? 
Feel  ye  no  scintillant  glory  to  prove 

Mystical  presence  of  heavenly  things  ? 

Hush  thy  wild  sobs,  O  disconsolate  mourner ! 

Thy  little  one  slumbers — sweet,  sweet  is  her  rest ; 
Angels  of  tenderness  far  hence  have  borne  her — 

The  arms  of  "  Our  Father"  thy  babe  have  caressed. 

165 


1 66  LITTLE  MAY  BALLARD. 

Upward,  still  upward — on,  on  to  the  skies, 
Winging  their  flight  from  the  prison  of  clay, 

Past  the  gates  of  the  dawn  and  the  realms  of  sunrise 
The  child  and  the  angels  have  flitted  away. 


LIZZIE. 

DO  I  remember  Lizzie?     Oh  yes  ! 
She  was  the  pride  of  the  place  ; 
No  one  looked  in  her  eyes  but  to  bless 
Her  bright  and  beautiful  face. 

I  never  saw  a  forehead  so  white, 

Such  a  purely  womanly  brow : 
Let's  see  !  if  I  remember  aright, 

That  was  thirty  years  ago. 

Her  hair  was  as  dark  as  forest  gloom 

When  the  sun's  about  to  set, 
With  here  and  there  through  the  dusky  bloom 

A  sunbeam  shimmering  yet. 

And  her  cheeks  were  like  crushed  carnations, 

With  lilies  laid  close  beside, 
Or  a  wave's  paly  palpitations 

With  sunrise  upon  the  tide. 

Her  lips  were  like  sanctified  portals 
Whence  holy  church  music  pours ; 

And  her  smiles,  like  evangelized  mortals, 
Came  out  of  their  crimson  doors. 

167 


l6S  LIZZIE. 

"  Would  I  know  her  now?"     Art  thou  hinting? 

To  affection  what  is  Time 
But  an  artist  softly  retinting 
Pictures  already  sublime? 

Know  Lizzie  ?     Yes  !  anywhere  straying, 

Walking  in  triumph  or  tears ; 
My  heart  has  been  kneeling  and  praying 

To  her  image  all  these  years — 

Bound  there  by  memories  unblighted, 

And  love  that  could  never  die, 
Though  her  fate  was  never  united, 

Thank  Heaven  !  with  such  as  I. 

I  never  beside  her  long  tarried, 
And  never  once  kissed  her  brow  ; 

No  doubt  she  long  ago  married, 
And  wholly  forgets  me  now  ; 

For  mine  was  that  worship  unspoken 

Which  burneth  on  unrevealed. 
J  knew,  though  my  heart  should  be  broken, 

'Twere  better  for  both  concealed. 

I  know  that  my  forehead  is  wrinkled, 
My  bosom  becrossed  with  care, 

And  time  has  unsparingly  sprinkled 
His  hoarfrost  over  my  hair. 

But,  then,  what  of  that?     Not  a  wrinkle 

Furrows  my  heart  to-day, 
For  Lizzie's  white  hand  seems  to  sprinkle 

Youth  on  its  roots  alway. 


LIZZIE.  169 

The  sunset  of  life  is  serener 

Than  the  glowing  flush  of  its  dawn  ; 

And  Memory  goes  out  like  a  gleaner 
In  the  fields  of  the  golden  gone. 

And  she  lies  like  a  dreamy  sleeper 

'Mongst  the  harvests  swept  away 
By  Time,  that  relentless  reaper, 

To  the  world  of  Yesterday 

In  her  bygone  girlish  glory 

My  Lizzie  she  loves  to  hold  : 
There  she  lives  like  the  song  or  story 

Which,  though  aged,  never  grows  old. 

Like  a  star  she  rose  on  my  lifetime ; 

I  worship  that  starlight  yet, 
Though  the  rays  of  her  womanly  wife-time 

Some  other  bosom  has  met. 

What !  say  you  she  never  has  wedded? 

Strange  is  that  story,  if  true  ; 
Why  the  days  of  her  life  seemed  threaded 

With  love-links  for  ever  new. 

Lovers,  like  sentinels,  wandered 

Along  her  beautiful  life  ; 
Was  all  that  fidelity  squandered, 

And  Lizzie  never  a  wife? 

You  say  that  her  hair  is  whitened, 

And  her  life  one  long  regret ; 
That  her  days  go  by  unbrightened, 

And  her  heart  cannot  forget. 

15 


LIZZIE. 

Pray,  what  in  her  sweet  existence 
Could  give  her  a  moment's  pain  ? 

What  heart  ever  showed  resistance 
To  aught  she  desired  to  gain? 

Nay  !  say  not  yon  form  is  Lizzie  ; 

Ah  !  trifle  not  thus  again  ; 
My  brain  grows  easily  dizzy, 

And  my  heart  is  prone  to  pain. 

Still,  do  you  say  she  is  near  me? 

Her  face  !     Ah  !  how  can  you  dare  ! 
Do  you  mean  yon  pale  woman — hear  me 

With  her  crown  of  silver  hair? 

With  that  brow  so  sad  and  shrunken, 
That  eye  with  its  faded  fires, 

That  cheek  so  pallid  and  sunken, 
That  lip  where  all  joy  expires? 

You  rave  !     I  turn  from  your  picture  ; 

Your  Lizzie  like  that  may  seem, 
But  mine  is  unbound  by  the  stricture 

Of  any  such  fearful  dream. 

Mine  lives  in  the  land  immortal 
Of  manhood's  undying  truth, 

And  love  is  the  pearly  portal 
Of  the  fount  of  eternal  youth  ! 


LOVE    LINES. 

OH  tell  me  not  that  future  years 
Will  bring  a  shadow  to  my  brow, 
That  time  will  turn  my  smiles  to  tears, 

And  change  the  heart  that  loves  thee  now. 
As  fly  the  years  more  closely  still 

Clings  to  the  oak  the  pendent  vine  ; 
As  time  rolls  by,  so,  dear  one,  will 
My  heart  cling  closer  unto  thine. 

Talk  not  of  wealth's  alluring  power  ; 

What  are  its  gems  and  gold  to  me  ? 
I'd  give  them  all  for  one  sweet  hour 

Of  calm,  unbroken  bliss  with  thee. 
Ah  !  dearest  one,  the  humble  hearth 

Where  love  and  truth  contented  live 
Lendeth  a  brightness  to  the  earth 

Which  wealth  can  never,  never  give. 

Then  take  me  to  thy  faithful  breast, 
And  let  thy  heart  my  haven  be  ; 

Where  I  may  safely  sink  to  rest, 

From  life's  rude  tempests  fondly  free. 


172  LOVE  LINES. 

Thus,  heart  to  heart  and  hand  in  hand, 
We'll  smiling  greet  life's  shadowed  even, 

Whose  fading  light  reveals  the  land 
Where  Love  creates  eternal  heaven. 


TO    SOME    FALSE    HAIR. 

HERE  is  a  tress  of  hair  like  mine, 
So  like  in  texture  and  in  hue 
'Tvvould  seem,  as  here  its  threads  I  twine, 
Beneath  no  other  sun  or  vine, 
Upon  no  other  head  than  mine, 
It  grew. 


Yet  know  I  not  upon  what  brow 

The  glossy  locks  first  shining  hung ; 
Whether  'twas  pure  as  drifted  snow, 
Whether  'twas  sad  or  dark  or  low, 
Whether  'twas  old  and  worn  with  woe, 
Or  young. 


What  thoughts  filled  up  the  busy  brain 

Beneath  this  soft,  uncurling  hair, 
Were  they  of  greed  and  golden  gain, 
Ambition,  avarice  or  pain? 
Teemed  they  with  burning  hopes  or  vain 
Despair? 

15*  173 


174  TO   SOME  FALSE  HAIR. 

How  throbbed  the  heart?     Did  love  alone 

Hold  undisturbed  dominion  there  ? 
Or  was  that  heart  his  tottering  throne, 
With  pride  and  peace  and  glory  flown, 
Its  royal  colors  thickly  strewn 

With  care? 

Is  it  some  woman's  radiant  hair, 

The  former  pride  of  some  proud  head? 
Has  age  shot  silver  arrows  where 
The  sister  tresses  shimmering  are  ? 
Has  Beauty  scorned  the  change  to  share 
And  fled? 

Or  has  the  former  owner  died? 

What  pangs  or  pleasures  felt  she  last? 
The  pressure  of  some  true  heart  tried, 
Some  haunting  thoughts  of  fate  defied, 
Or  turned  she  to  some  love  denied 
Long  past? 

O  relic  of  some  life  gone  by, 

Or  of  some  bosom  beating  yet ! 
Were  voice  but  thine  how  might  I  sigh 
O'er  some  heart's  hallowed  history — 
Some  long  life's  mournful  mystery — 
Regret ! 

Cold  world  of  fashion,  false  and  vain, 
How  much  in  thy  deceit  we  trust ! 
Forgetful  that  thy  glittering  train, 
Like  this  fair  tress  must,  grain  by  grain, 
Be  scattered  and  resolved  again 
To  dust. 


THE    LITTLE    FIDDLER'S    SONG. 

I  FIDDLE  for  breakfast,  I  fiddle  for  dinner, 
I  fiddle  for  saint  and  I  fiddle  for  sinner ; 
From  morning  till  night  my  little  bare  feet 
Go  cheerily  roaming  from  street  to  street ; 
I  pocket  the  pennies  and  pocket  the  dimes, 
And  I  crook  my  elbow  to  suit  the  times, 
With  my  squeak  !  squeak  !  do  !  re  !  mi !  fa  ! 

I  fiddle  for  maid  and  I  fiddle  for  master, 
Where  faces  are  fairest  I  fiddle  the  faster ; 
Where  money  is  spent  or  where  money  is  made, 
I'm  often  rebuffed,  but  oftener  paid  ; 
I  play  for  the  poor  and  I  play  for  the  proud, 
And  I  pass  my  cap  to  the  kind-hearted  crowd, 
With  my  squeak  !  squeak  !  do  !  re  !  mi !  fa  ! 

Few  know  the  joy  that  a  vagabond  feels, 
With  a  fiddle  to  play  and  a  dog  at  his  heels  ; 
A-roaming  from  palace  to  cottager's  door, 
Amusing  the  rich  and  delighting  the  poor, 
Content  to  sleep  anywhere  when  it  comes  night, 
A  peaceful  conscience  making  "  all  right," 
With  my  squeak  !  squeak  !  do  !  re  !  mi !  fa  ! 


176  THE  LITTLE  FIDDLER'S   SONG. 

The  world  owes  a  living  to  Rover  and  me  ; 
We  cheerfully  take  it,  whatever  it  be, 
Eating  our  dinner  in  quiet,  alone — 
I  taking  the  meat,  he  taking  the  bone  ; 
Then,  taking  the  road  when  'tis  time  that  we  jog, 
Together  we  tramp  it — myself  and  my  dog, 
With  our  squeak  !  squeak  !  do  !  re  !  mi !  fa  ! 


I  travel  by  land  and  I  travel  by  sea, 

So  careless  and  happy  and  healthy  and  free : 

With  a  crust  in  my  pocket  and  peace  in  my  heart, 

I'm  ready  to  rest  or  I'm  ready  to  start ; 

Gayly  I  wander  'twixt  palace  and  hut, 

Merrily  scraping  the  jolly  cat-gut, 

With  its  squeak  !  squeak  !  do  !  re  !  mi !  fa  ! 

Where  wild  blows  the  wind  and  where  frost  fills  the  air, 
Where  rivers  are  icy  and  mountains  are  bare  ; 
In  climes  where  the  orange  and  jasmine  in  bloom 
Load  the  wandering  breeze  with  the  sweetest  perfume — 
Right  tired,  sometimes,  but  disconsolate  never, 
I  trustingly  swear  by  my  fiddle  for  ever, 

With  its  squeak  !  squeak  !  do  !  re  !  mi !  fa  ! 

I  haven't  a  sorrow,  I  haven't  a  care, 
Though  naked  my  feet  and  though  rugged  my  fare  ; 
And  as  for  my  clothes  being  ragged  or  small, 
Why  Adam  and  Eve  had  just  no  clothes  at  all ; 
So,  sure  that  I'm  much  better  off  than  were  they, 
I  fiddle  and  fiddle  and  fiddle  away, 

With  my  squeak  !  squeak  !  do  !  re  !  mi !  fa  ! 


THE  LITTLE  FIDDLER'S   SONG.  177 

I  fiddle  to-day  and  I  fiddle  to-morrow, 

I  fiddle  for  joy  and  I  fiddle  for  sorrow ; 

In  the  North,  in  the  South,  in  the  East,  in  the  West, 

Wherever  my  fiddle  will  pay  me  the  best ; 

A  musical  elbow  I  find  is  the  thing 

To  Poverty  rob  of  her  bitterest  sting, 

With  its  squeak  !  squeak !  do !  re  !  mi !  fa  ! 

I  fiddle  for  breakfast,  I  fiddle  for  dinner, 

I  fiddle  for  saint  and  I  fiddle  for  sinner  ; 

From  morning  till  night,  with  my  little  bare  feet, 

I  cheerily  wander  from  street  to  street ; 

I  pocket  the  pennies  and  pocket  the  dimes, 

Shaking  my  elbow  to  suit  the  times, 

With  my  squeak  !  squeak  !  do  !  re  !  mi !  fa  ! 
M 


TO  A  FLOWER  FROM  GERTRUDE'S  TOMB. 

AROSE,  a  pure,  white  rose,  so  sweet,  so  fair, 
One  well  might  deem  thy  spirit  hidden  there, 
Its  flight  to  heaven  staying  yet  a  while 
Some  loving  mourner's  sorrow  to  beguile. 
I  kiss  the  flower — its  petals,  half  unfurled, 
So  like  thy  heart — "  unspotted  from  the  world," 
Its  gentle  fragrance,  delicate  and  pure — 
So  like  thy  guileless  spirit's  portraiture. 
'Twas  gathered  from  thy  grave — this  little  rose — 
Where  its  main  stem  such  lavish  verdure  throws ; 
The  cold,  forbidding  features  of  the  tomb 
Lie  hidden  in  its  sweet  embrace  of  bloom, 
As  if  the  vine  had  caught  the  tender  grace 
Thy  smile  once  had,  to  cheer  a  gloomy  place. 
178 


AFTER    THE    WAR. 

OVER  the  stony  street,  clamp,  clamp,  clamp  ! 
Ride  the  cavalrymen  from  the  camp  ; 
With  carbines  slung  and  sabres  bright, 
Home  they  ride  from  foray  and  fight, 
Grimed  with  their  battles  lost  and  won, 
Husband,  lover,  father  and  son 

Riding  home. 

Tramp,  tramp  through  the  dusty  street 
Rings  the  sound  of  returning  feet ; 
Through  the  valleys  and  over  the  hills, 
The  throb,  throb  of  their  marching  thrills. 
With  folded  banners  and  sullen  drums, 
Rank  and  file  the  regiment  comes 

Marching  home. 

Heavily  fall  the  hoofs  of  the  horses, 
Clattering  home  with  the  cavalrymen  ; 

Steadily  tramp  the  feet  of  the  forces, 
Marching  home  from  the  wars  again, 

Muskets  silent  and  sabres  sheathed, 

Peace  on  the  gleaming  steel  has  breathed, 
God  be  praised  ! 

179 


l8o  AFTER    THE    WAR. 

Alas !  for  desolate  hearts  and  homes 
Where  the  long-awaited  never  comes  ! 
Where  the  hearth  is  swept  and  fire  kept  bright 
For  eyes  that  never  will  see  its  light — 
Where  affection  waits,  and  waits  in  vain, 
For  the  step  that  never  will  come  again 
From  the  war ! 


LINES 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JAMES  E.  VAN  STEENBURG,  OF 
FISHKILL  VILLAGE,  DUCHESS  Co.,  N.  Y. 

AND  thou  art  gone  !     Gone  as  the  brave  oak  goes 
When,  lightning-riven,  it  falls  in  all  its  strength  ; 
Gone  like  a  star  struck  from  its  shining  sphere, 
With  all  its  brilliant  radiance  undimmed  ; 
Gone,  like  a  sun  that's  set,  with  all  the  gold 
And  purple  of  a  noble  life  well  spent, 
Making  thy  couch  of  death  irradiate. 
Thine  absence  doth  a  starless  twilight  leave 
In  hearts  that  loved  thee,  yet  is  it  illumed 
By  the  rich  glow  the  memory  of  thy  days — 
So  rightly  lived,  so  calmly  yielded  up — 
Paints  in  warm,  glowing,  glorious  tints 
Along  the  dark  horizon  of  regret. 

The  dew  was  yet  upon  thy  leaves  of  life  ; 
Time,  in  his  fiery  thirst,  had  not  yet  sapped 
The  morning  freshness  from  thy  manly  pulse, 
The  summer  sunshine  from  thy  generous  heart 
Thy  feet  yet  rested  'mid  the  rosy  bloom, 
The  noonday  light  and  warmth  and  crystal  truth 


1 82  LINES. 

Of  grand  existence,  and  the  curdling  clouds 
Of  wintry  age  had  not,  as  yet,  obscured 
One  star  in  the  fair  zenith  of  thy  days. 
The  royal  gold  of  faithful  friendship  filled 
The  coffers  of  thy  life,  yet  thou  didst  die  ! — 

Die,  while  Love  clung  to  thee  and  prayed  aloud 

In  direst  agony  that  thou  wouldst  live. 

Die,  while  True  Friendship,  self- forgetful,  stood 

And  watched  with  smited  heart  thy  failing  pulse. 

Die,  while  Affection's  meek  resistance  fought 

The  one  foe  stronger  than  are  all  our  friends ! 

Ay !  while  we  wept  Death  offered  thee  his  hand, 

And  thou  didst  take  it  fearlessly,  like  one 

Who  only  sees  in  him  the  trusty  guide 

Who  waits  to  lead  us  through  Life's  final  gates 

Into  the  better  country  just  beyond. 

Droop,  O  ye  village  elms !  beneath  whose  shade 
So  long  and  peacefully  his  heart  did  beat — 
Droop  low  and  sadly  for  that  heart  is  still ! 
Turn  ye  your  morning  dews  to  tears  and  shed 
Them  tenderly  in  memory  of  him 
Who  shall  to  your  green  arches  come  no  more. 
Your  leaves  will  fall  in  autumn,  but  his  feet 
Will  never  rustle  their  crisp  depths  again  ; 
Your  branches  will  put  forth  their  buds  in  spring 
And  birds  will  build  there,  but  his  loving  eye 
Shall  look  upon  your  buds  and  birds  no  more. 
Droop  low,  ye  village  elms,  his  sacred  dust 
Has  passed  beneath  your  archway  to  that  couch 
Whose  lonely  pillow  he  shall  never  leave ! 


LINES.  183 

Ye  mountain  peaks,  bid  ye  the  passing  clouds 
To  crape  your  summits  with  their  pale  gray  mists. 
Death  has  put  out  the  eyes  that  loved  ye  well, 
And  hushed  the  voice  that  joyed  to  speak  your  praise. 
A  note  is  stolen  from  the  lofty  scale 
Of  human  harmony ;  and  all  the  sweet 
Resounding  echoes  climbing  up  your  heights 
Must  miss  one  from  among  their  cheerful  choir. 

Cease,  cease  to  toll,  ye  village  church-bells,  cease  ! 

Our  hearts  are  turned  to  funeral-bells,  and  toll 

For  one  who  is  not ;  and  the  aisles  of  thought, 

Where  Memory,  a  pale-faced  mourner  kneels, 

Ring  with  the  echoes  of  departed  feet, 

Which,  save  in  dreams,  will  walk  our  ways  no  more  : 

But  Faith,  consoling  Faith,  points  from  the  tomb 

Toward  the  far,  eternal  valleys,  where 

The  angels  sow  the  fields  of  night  with  stars, 

And  bids  us  staunch  our  wounds  with  the  sweet  hope 

That  soul  to  soul  we  there  may  meet  again 

Him  whom  Our  Father,  in  His  wisdom,  called 

From  earth  to  be  with  Him  in  paradise. 


LINES    TO    A    BOUQUET. 

SWEET  gift !  to  thee,  on  friendship's  altar  cast, 
.  My  heart  kneels  down,  o'erflowing  with  emotion, 
For  thou  hast  brought  me  pictures  of  a  past 

Which  memory  worships  with  a  strange  devotion. 

Thou  bringest  visions  of  a  distant  hearth, 
A  far-off  roof-tree  and  a  rushing  river — 

A  meadow  which  gave  goiden  cowslips  birth, 
A  brook  whose  song  was  "  ever  and  for  ever." 

I  seem  to  see  a  well-remembered  face, 

I  seem  to  listen  to  familiar  voices, 
I  wander  in  a  well-remembered  place ; 

In  days  of  old  the  new  to-day  rejoices. 

I  feel  a  well-known  pressure  on  my  hand, 
And  on  my  yielding  lip  and  cheek  another  ; 

On  childhood's  sunny  threshold  do  I  stand 
And  gaze  into  the  sweet  eyes  of  my  mother. 

Long-faded  sunsets  glow  again  for  me, 

Again  are  gentle  hands  my  locks  caressing ; 

I  kneel  once  more  beside  a  father's  knee, 

And  bow  my  forehead  to  his  tender  blessing. 

184 


LINES    TO  A  BOUQUET.  185 

Fair  phantom  fingers  lead  me  down  the  vale 

Where  sleep  for  ever  those  my  heart  hath  cherished. 

And  Memory's  ghostly  feet  glide  cold  and  pale 
Among  the  frozen  flowers  of  summers  perished. 

The  grave,  behold !  gives  back  its  early  dead, 
The  past  yields  up  its  Herculaneum  treasure  ; 

Long-silent  lips,  dipped  in  Life's  rosy  red, 

Sigh,  sing,  sob,  laugh  again,  in  pain  or  pleasure. 

Along  my  path  lie  scattered  tearful  smiles — 
Scattered  and  buried  in  the  sad  "  No  more" — 

Which  now  a  blossom's  simple  breath  beguiles 
To  rise  from  the  white  camps  of  "  Gone  before." 
16* 


NEVER    COMPLAIN. 


NEVER  complain  ;  why  should  you  bare 
To  the  world  your  heart? 
For  your  red  wounds  what  does  it  care, 
However  they  smart? 
Why  burden  its  gales 
With  your  woes  and  wails  ? 
Hush  them  and  crush  them — 
Never  complain  ! 


What  though  your  best  aims  for  success 

Seem  wasted  labor? 

And  what  though  Fate  seems  but  to  bless 
Your  richer  neighbor? 
Learn  to  endure  it, 
Can  complaint  cure  it? 
Your  share  bravely  bear — 
Never  complain ! 


NEVER    COMPLAIN.  187 


Because  your  path  is  drear  and  darks 

Must  you  shadow  mine  ? 
Because  I  sail  a  leaky  bark, 
Shall  I  founder  thine  ? 

Nay  !  trim  your  own  sails 
To  weather  Life's  gales  ; 
Quail  not  and  fail  not — 
Never  complain  ! 


Craven  !  to  make  another's  ears 

Sewers  to  drain  your  life 
Of  all  its  refuse  sighs  and  tears, 
Ills  and  petty  strife  ! 
"Pis  a  beggar's  due, 
This  "I  pity  you!" 
Disgracing,  debasing — 
Never  complain ! 


Why  will  ye  to  the  weakness  yield 

Of  base  repining? 

'Tis  cowardice — best  kept  concealed, 
This  senseless  whining. 
Why  lend  to  Malice 
Your  heart's  best  chalice  ? 
She'll  drain  it  and  stain  it — 
Never  complain  ! 


1 88  NEVER    COMPLAIN. 


WJiat  though  hope's  golden  harvest  be 

Mingled  with  tares? 
What  though  in  joys  attained  you  see 
But  thickening  cares? 
Bear  your  own  load, 
Nor  another  goad 
With  thongs  of  your  wrongs — 
Never  complain  ! 


Less  sins  than  fretting  are  called  crime 

In  this  world  of  pelf: 
Be  strong,  be  still ;  'tis  strength  sublime 
That  conquereth  self. 

What  though  your  heart  ache — 
What  though  your  heart  break  ! 
Wear  it  and  bear  it — 
Never  complain ! 


Whate'er  the  sorrow  you  endure, 

You  can  find  a  worse — 
Some  deeper  wound  more  hard  to  cure, 
Some  bitterer  curse. 
In  comforting  others — 
Friends,  sisters,  brothers — 
Find  relief  for  your  grief — 
Never  complain ! 


NEVER    COMPLAIN.  189 


A  day  will  come  when  all  the  pain 

Will  be  requited — 
When  clouded  skies  will  clear  again, 
And  wrongs  be  righted. 
Smother  your  sighs,  man  ! 
Stifle  your  cries,  man  ! 
Moan  not  and  groan  not — 
Never  complain  ! 


EBB    AND    FLOW. 

THE  morn  is  on  the  march,  her  banner  flies 
In  blue  and  golden  glory  o'er  the  skies  ; 
The  songs  of  wakening  birds  are  on  the  breeze, 
The  stir  of  fragrant  zephyrs  in  the  trees. 
Waves  leap,  full  freighted,  to  the  sunny  shore, 
Their  scrolls  of  snow  and  azure  written  o'er 
With  hope  and  joy  and  youth  and  pleasure  new, 
While  surges  fast  the  sands  with  jewels  strew — 
The  tide  is  in  ! 

The  stars  shine  down  upon  a  lonely  shore, 
The  crested  billows  sparkle  there  no  more. 
Poor  bits  of  wreck  and  tangled  seaweed  lie 
With  empty  shells  beneath  the  silent  sky. 
Along  the  shore  are  perished  friendships  spread, 
In  Hope's  exhausted  arms  lies  Pleasure  dead  ; 
A  life  lies  stranded  on  the  wreck-strewn  beach, 
The  ebbing  waves  beyond  its  feeble  reach — 
The  tide  is  out ! 


THE    OLD    CLOCK    IN    THE    CORNER, 

I  MIND  me  of  two  pleasant  things 
My  childhood  loved  to  know, 
And  smile  on  them  as  memory  brings 

The  scenes  of  "  long  ago." 
I  see  them  now,  as  down  the  past 

Mute  Fancy's  footsteps  fall — 
An  old  clock  in  the  corner  dim, 
A  shadow  on  the  wall. 

The  clock  was  old  and  dull  with  years ; 

Its  dial  scarred  and  wan, 
For  it  had  marked  the  smiles  and  tears 

Of  generations  gone. 
With  timid  eyes  I  used  to  watch 

Its  figure,  dark  and  tall, 
And  'twas  my  mother's  shadow  fell 

Beside  it  on  the  wall. 

For  ever  there  at  eventide, 

That  form  so  slight  and  fair, 
The  old  clock  ticking  at  her  side, 

And  roses  in  her  hair ! 


192   THE  OLD  CLOCK  IN  THE  CORNER. 

And  there  I  saw  the  stars  look  down 

And  pallid  moonbeams  fall 
Round  the  old  clock  in  the  corner  lone — 

The  shadow  on  the  wall. 


How  oft,  when  nestled  to  her  breast, 

I've  heard  her  whispered  prayer 
That  by  the  gracious  Saviour  blest 

Might  be  her  darling  there. 
And  when  I  waked  in  those  dear  arms, 

My  dreamy  eyes  would  fall 
On  the  old  clock  in  the  corner  dark — 

Her  shadow  on  the  wall. 


The  spring-time  came,  the  robins  sung, 

The  gladiolus  bloomed, 
The  wild  rose  by  the  roadside  hung, 

And  all  the  air  perfumed. 
And  still  I  saw  my  mother's  smile 

Illume  the  ancient  hall, 
The  old  clock  ticking  at  her  side — 

Her  shadow  on  the  wall. 


Alas !  there  came  a  time  when  lone 

My  heart  grew  evermore  ; 
I  found  that  I  had  leaned  upon 

A  shadow — nothing  more. 
Still  ticking  was  the  grim  old  clock 

Out  in  the  lonely  hall, 
But  gone  for  aye  the  form  that  cast 

The  shadow  on  the  wall. 


THE    OLD    CLOCK  IN   THE    CORNER.       193 

For  far  away  in  shadow-land 

Where  bloom  the  bright  and  blest, 
The  loved  one  with  an  angel  band 

Found  her  abiding  rest. 
I  learned,  as  I  wept  beside  the  clock 

Alone  in  the  gloomy  hall, 
How  precious  to  the  heart  may  be 

A  shadow  on  the  wall. 

And  love,  I  learned,  is  not  a  breath 

Which  time  doth  wipe  away  ; 
Though  Life's  a  blossom  kissed  by  death, 

Then  left  to  slow  decay. 
And  Time,  the  ceaseless  monitor, 

Is  the  old  clock  in  the  hall, 
And  treasures  which  we  cherish  most 

But  shadows  on  the  wall. 
N 


THE  ODD  FELLOW'S  FUNERAL. 

*r  I  "'WAS  almost  sunset,  and  alone  I  wandered 
_L  Among  the  mansions  of  the  dreamless  dead 

Pensive  and  sad,  on  other  scenes  I  pondered — 
On  loved  ones  lost,  on  joys  for  ever  fled. 

The  withering  breath  of  autumn,  faint  and  low, 
Came  sadly  sighing  past  each  quiet  tomb, 

While  shadows,  gathering  upon  evening's  brow, 
Added  their  darkness  to  the  deepening  gloom. 

Softly  upon  the  gentle  air  of  even 

Stole  to  mine  ear  lone  notes  of  music  sweet, 
So  distant  that  they  seemed  to  glide  from  heaven 

Into  my  sad  soul's  innermost  retreat. 

It  seemed  as  if  some  angel-band  were  here 
Chanting  soft  requiems  above  the  dead  ; 

While  one  lone  star  hung  like  a  pitying  tear 

Above  each  slumberer's  couch,  by  twilight  shed. 

Near  and  more  near  the  mystic  music  drew ; 

I  heard  the  throbbing  of  a  funeral  drum  : 
Another  silent  dweller  then,  I  knew, 

Approached  this  pale-doored  city  of  the  dumb. 
194 


THE    ODD  FELLOW'S   FUNERAL.  195 

Then  came  the  mourners  with  their  measured  marches, 
Their  shrouded  banner  and  the  solemn  bier, 

Bringing,  beneath  the  evening's  starry  arches, 
A  brother  to  lie  down  for  ever  here. 

Upon  the  coffin  his  regalia  lay, 

Where  roses  freshly  gathered  shed  perfume 
Sweet  as  sweet  life  upon  the  white  array 

Of  halls  all  echoless  and  gates  all  gloom. 

A  branch  of  evergreen  from  each  kind  hand, 

To  symbolize  belief  in  life  immortal 
And  joy  eternal  in  the  eternal  land, 

Dropped  tenderly  upon  the  tomb's  cold  portal. 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  be  unto  dust ! 

The  clinking  trowel  finishes  the  tale  : 
The  spirit  soars  where  neither  moth  nor  rust 

Corrupts,  nor  friendships  fade,  nor  griefs  assail. 

'Tis  o'er  !     The  solemn  ritual  is  said, 
The  funeral  cortege  vanishes  in  gloom, 

But  I  still  linger  by  the  buried  dead 

And  shed  my  tears  upon  a  stranger's  tomb. 

In  tropic  climes  had  been  his  early  home  : 

Ah  !  do  his  dear  ones  wait  his  coming  there  ? 
There  do  they  pray  for  him  when  night  hath  come 
-  Nor  know  their  darling  is  beyond  their  prayer? 

While  these  sad  thoughts  arise,  my  memory  brings 
Her  own  great  griefs  and  opens  them  anew  ; 

For  eyes  must  weep  and  sorrow  plant  her  stings. 
Albeit  God  is  good  and  Heaven  is  true. 


196  THE    ODD   FELLOW'S  FUNERAL. 

Sorrows  there  are  that  never  find  repose, 

Griefs  that  the  wounded  heart  can  ne'er  forget, 

Deep  graves  within  our  lives  that  never  close, 
Great  suns  of  bitterness  that  never  set. 

* 

I  had  a  brother  once  ;  long  since  he  died : 

Far  from  the  scenes  of  childhood's  sunny  bloom 

He  wooed  illusive  Fame  to  be  his  bride — 
He  found  a  deathbed  and  a  stranger's  tomb  ! 

Kind  brothers  laid  him  in  his  early  grave, 

And  soothed  his  dying  hour  with  gentle  care  ; 

God's  blessing  on  that  brotherhood  I  crave, 
And  for  them  breathe  a  sister's  grateful  prayer. 


I 


MY    PUPILS. 

HAVE  two  pupils,  young  and  strong, 
Restless  and  roving  all  day  long ; 
Bent,  half  the  time,  o'er  dry  old  books, 
And  half  upon  their  own  good  looks. 

Some  years  ago  a  Father's  care 
Sent  them  my  study  hours  to  share — 

Two  wandering  truants,  full  of  sins, 

A  pair  of  tantalizing  twins. 

Yet  they're  not  wicked,  only  wild  ; 

But  what  a  charge  for  such  a  child 
As  I  was  when  at  first  I  sought 
To  teach  them  as  they  should  be  taught ! 

Try  as  I  may  their  ways  to  lead, 
I  find  they're  leading  me  instead  ; 
And,  often  puzzled  what  to  do, 
I'm  thankful  that  there  are  but  two. 

In  vain,  whenever  comes  the  night 
I  shut  them  both  in  prisons  tight ; 

In  vain,  when  comes  the  merry  morn, 
I  ope  the  doors  and  sagely  warn  ; 
17  *  197 


MT  PUPILS. 

They  gravely  wink  at  what  I  say  ; 

Then,  self-reliant,  go  their  way, 

As  full  of  mirth,  as  free  from  pride, 

As  though  they  ne'er  had  heard  me  chide. 

Loads  of  advice  the  good  world  brings 
To  keep  these  youths  in  leading-strings  ; 

But  they,  the  saucy  things,  declare 

Precept  is  cheap,  example  rare  ! 

They  split  upon  all  sorts  of  rocks, 
Give  goodly  folk  all  sorts  of  shocks  ; 
Find  earnest  Christians  out  of  church, 
And  leave  long  sermons  in  the  lurch. 

They  go  where  I  forbid  them  to, 

View  scenes  they're  told  they  should  not  view 
Trust  where  most  men  suspicion  feel — 
Where  fewest  pray  they  with  me  kneel. 

They  take  the  Bible  for  their  priest, 
And  like  it  best  explained  the  least ; 

If  I  must  shoulder  all  their  sins, 

I  wonder  where  the  list  begins. 

Yet  some  good  things  do  they  behold — 
These  pupils  whom  I'm  prone  to  scold — 
And  with  them  both  I  visions  view 
Which  pardon  wins  for  ills  they  do. 

They  see,  in  guilt's  distracted  face, 

Still  signs  of  a  redeeming  grace  ; 
And  where  a  brother  falls,  they  say, 
*'  Oh  lift  and  help  him  on  his  way !" 


MT  PUPILS.  199 

Real  poverty,  disguised  in  gold, 
In  Luxury's  lap  they  oft  behold, 

While  truest  wealth  and  noblest  worth 

In  rags  and  ruin  walk  the  earth. 

In  fallen  woman's  blasted  fame 

They  see  not  um'epentant  shame  ; 

They  glance  the  broken  heart  within — 
Own  hers  the  shame,  but  man's  the  sin. 

No  breast  so  black  they  cannot  see 

Therein  some  spot  of  purity  ; 
And  little  seeds  of  faith  sublime 
They've  found  in  hearts  of  calloused  crime. 

Where  Justice  flings  its  stern  decrees 
They  Pity  see  on  bended  knees, 

Saying,  "  Many  a  sin,  world  unforgiven, 

Its  pardon  findeth  up  in  heaven." 

And  thus,  however  I  may  preach, 
My  pupils  still  their  teacher  teach  : 

May  He  who  gave  them  to  my  care 

Chide  not  that  they  no  better  are  ! 


LUTHER    LANE. 

WITHIN  a  tottering  tenement, 
Upon  a  patch  of  ground 
Where  breeze  and  bloom  are  never  blent 

.  Nor  ray  of  sunlight  found — 
A  spot  which  beauty  ever  shuns, 

Where  gloomy  shadows  reign — 
Dwells  one  of  Nature's  honest  sons, 
Whose  name  is  Luther  Lane. 

No  tree  nor  floweret  decks  the  place, 

No  signs  of  woman's  care, 
No  smiles  upon  the  old  man's  face, 

No  children  by  his  chair  : 
The  robin  there  ne'er  rests  its  wing, 

No  cricket  chirps  its  strain, 
No  blossoms  blush,  no  birdlings  sing, 

For  lonely  Luther  Lane. 

So  quiet  this  remote  retreat, 
It  seems  the  home  of  death  :  ^ 

One  hears  the  heart  of  silence  beat, 

While  Nature  holds  her  breath. 
200 


LUTHER    LANE.  2OI 

Like  shivered  spears  or  broken  blades 

On  blighted  battle-plain, 
The  grasses  droop,  the  daisy  fades, 

Where  dwelleth  Luther  Lane. 


In  weariness  and  dreariness 

Unvaried  pass  his  days, 
No  friendly  lips  to  blame  or  bless, 

No  voice  to  plead  or  praise. 
Unheeded  shine  the  stars  on  high, 

Unheeded  falls  the  rain  ; 
'Tis  all  the  same,  whatever  sky 

Bends  over  Luther  Lane. 


Believe  me,  'twas  not  always  so  : 

That  bent  brow  once  was  bold  ; 
'Twould  be  less  shrunken  now,  I  trow, 

Were  not  the  heart  so  cold. 
Once,  ne'er  a  lighter  footstep  fell, 

Once,  ne'er  a  blither  swain — 
Triumphant  was  the  village  belle 

Who  danced  with  Luther  Lane. 


'Twas  then — in  those  forgotten  years 

When  but  to  breathe  was  bliss, 
And  Luther  thought  the  "  vale  of  tears" 

Was  any  world  but  this — 
He  met  a  maid  whose  merry  eyes 

Could  flatter  and  could  feign, 
And  she,  with  mingled  smiles  and  sighs, 

Bewitched  poor  Luther  Lane. 


LUTHER  LANE. 

Each  Sabbath  eve,  in  simple  garb, 

With  pulses  bounding  high, 
His  bosom  bleeding  with  the  barb 

Which  Cupid  loves  to  fly, 
Bearing  Love's  electricity 

In  every  throbbing  vein, 
With  fluttering  felicity 

Wooed  loving  Luther  Lane  ! 

Poor  Luther  ever  had  been  taught 

That  naught  was  made  in  vain  ; 
A  woman's  promises,  he  thought, 

Included  were,  'tis  plain. 
So,  trustingly,  he  knelt  before 

The  girl  he  hoped  to  gain, 
Who  vowed  that  she,  a  twelvemonth  o'er, 

Would  wed  with  Luther  Lane. 

Now  there  are  hearts,  like  gypsy's  palm, 

Which,  e'er  the  fate  is  told 
That  makes  another's  blight  or  balm, 

Must  first  be  crossed  with  gold  ; 
So  Luther's  ladye-love  declared 

The  two  must  two  remain 
Till  Fortune  had  her  favors  shared 

With  worthy  Luther  Lane. 


A  lonely  man  in  lonely  mine, 

He  labored  far  away  : 
What  sun  as  bright  as  Hope  can  shine, 

Or  make  a  shorter  day? 


LUTHER  LANE.  203 

A  year  rolled  by,  another  passed — 

He  hastened  home  again 
His  love  to  greet ;  for  rich  at  last 

Was  hopeful  Luther  Lane. 

He  sought  her  far  and  sought  her  wide, 

And  found  her  but  to  know 
She  bore  another's  seal  of  pride 

Upon  her  fickle  brow. 
She  curled  her  haughty  lip  in  scorn, 

And  met  with  cold  disdain 
The  broken  heart,  the  look  forlorn, 

Of  jilted  Luther  Lane. 

Cursed  be  thy  greed  of  gold  !"  he  cried ; 

"  My  heart  for  trusting  thee  ; 
Where  woman's  breast  can  avarice  hide, 

Cursed  may  she  ever  be  ! 
The  hearthstone  of  my  life  is  cold  ; 

Ne'er  can  it  glow  again, 
Its  chill  shall  yet  thine  own  enfold — 

Remember  Luther  Lane  !" 

From  all  he'd  known  and  loved  before 

He  turned  to  this  lone  spot- 
A  shell  upon  a  silent  shore, 

By  every  one  forgot. 
No  outward  indications  show 

His  bosom's  dreary  pain  ; 
But  life  is  one  long,  bitter  woe 

For  crazy  Luther  Lane. 


CHILDE    SIBYL. 

SHE  flies  before  me  down  the  garden  path, 
Smiles  when  I  frown,  defies  my  potent  wrath  ; 
Pelts  me  with  roses  when  I  would  rebuke, 
Returns  my  sternest  glance  with  saucy  look ; 
On  tip-toe  stands  behind  my  elbow  chair 
And  hides  her  white  hands  in  my  grizzled  hair, 
Then  drops  her  bright  head  down  upon  my  shoulder 
Ah  !  were  I  younger  or  were  she  but  older ! — 

What  then? 

She  gives  me  greeting  with  her  rosy  lips, 
Wafts  graceful  farewells  from  her  finger  tips  ; 
.  Along  my  sober  path  presumes  to  dance, 
And  through  her  curls  darts  back  her  merry  glance  ; 
Then  flies,  and  flying  bids  me  follow  after, 
Hides  from  my  sight,  allures  me  with  her  laughter ; 
I  find  her,  swing  her  to  my  stalwart  shoulder : 
Ah  !  were  I  younger  or  were  she  but  older ! — 

What  then? 


Around  my  neck  her  dimpled  arms  she  throws, 
Turns  pirouettes  upon  her  pretty  toes, 


CHILDE   SIBYL.  2O= 

Nestles  in  mine  her  soft,  bewitching  hands, 
While  she  confides  her  childish  plots  and  plans, 
And  if  I  find  some  trifle  done  amiss, 
She  "  hushes  tip"  reproaches  with  a  kiss  ! 
How  can  I  find  it  in  my  heart  to  scold  her  ? 
Ah  !  were  I  younger  or  were  she  but  older  ! — 

What  then? 

Oft  when  I  think  some  sweet  caress  is  missed, 

My  unexpecting  brow  is  slyly  kissed, 

Or  in  feigned  sleep  if  her  fair  head  be  pressed 

In  momentary  quiet  on  my  breast, 

And  unto  hers  my  swarthy  lip  be  neared, 

She  starts  and  veils  her  bright  face  with  my  beard  ; 

Were  she  more  timid  or  were  I  but  bolder, 

Were  I  but  younger  or  if  she  were  older  ! — 

What  then? 

She  loves  all  nature — she  is  Nature's  child, 
So  brightly  pure,  so  purely  undefiled  ! 
I  watch  her  flitting  in  the  fragrant  gloom, 
The  fairest  flower  where  all  is  flowery  bloom  ; 
And  from  my  heart  springs  up  a  prayer  to  bless 
With  all  that's  loveliest  her  loveliness. 
I  call,  she  comes — to  my  broad  breast  I  fold  her : 
Ah  !  were  I  younger  or  were  she  but  older  ! — 

What  then? 


Up  from  my  knee,  to-day,  her  face  she  lifts 
While  through  the  oriel  window  softly  drifts 
Sunlight,  which  rests  upon  her  golden  hair, 
Like  the  soft  blessing  of  a  silent  prayer. 


206  CHILD E   SIBYL. 

I  lay  my  trembling  hands  upon  her  brow, 
Ah  !  dare  I  wake  her  from  her  child-life  now  ? 
Close,  closer  to  my  yearning  heart  I  hold  her : 
Nay,  were  I  younger  or  were  she  but  older  ! — 
Then  !     Then  ! 


THE    TOY. 


MY  cousin  Flora  has  found  a  new  toy 
With  which  she  trifles  to-day. 
As  a  child  with  the  coral  and  bells  disports, 
Which  to-morrow  it  throws  away. 


And  why  do  we  bitterly  watch  her  game  ? 

Why  do  we  painfully  start? 
As  she  idly  toys  with  the  throbbing  thing — 

'Tis  only  a  human  heart. 


Only  a  heart  which  fell  in  her  way, 
Earnest  and  strong  and  unwrung, 

Eager  of  purpose,  and  proud  and  brave, 
Manly  and  noble  and  young. 


Unused  to  the  thrill  of  a  woman's  touch, 

New  to  love's  passionate  joy  : 
Prone  to  believe  in  a  woman's  truth — 

So,  her  legitimate  toy. 

207 


208  THE    TOT. 

V. 

She  captured  it  with  her  lily-white  hands, 
She  kindled  it  with  a  blush, 

She  set  it  a-flame  with  the  mantling  glow 
Of  her  forehead's  rosy  flush. 


She  braided  it  in  with  her  golden  hair, 
She  ensnared  it  with  her  smile, 

She  dazzled  it  with  her  radiant  eyes, 
And  bewitched  it  with  her  guile. 


She  wove  it  a  spell  with  a  glance  and  sigh, 

Bewildered  it  with  her  grace, 
Then  parted  her  crimson  lips  in  surprise 

As  it  broke  before  her  face  ! 


VIII. 

Ah  !  my  cousin  Flora  may  play  too  long, 

And  repent  of  it  too  late  ; 
Love  is  a  terrible  thing  to  transmute 

In  the  crucible  of  hate  ; 


And  'twere  well  if  unto  my  lady  fair 
Were  the  simple  art  but  known, 

Of  detecting  the  pebble  polished  bright 
From  the  rarer  precious  stone. 


THE    TOY.  209 


For  the  woman  who  plays  with  false  and  real, 

Coveting  both  as  her  gains, 
Finds  the  true  will  pass  from  her  eager  clasp 

While  the  counterfeit  remains. 


And  it  were  well  in  the  ruin  she  wreaks 
If  only  a  heart  would  break, 

But  so  often  a  soul  is  swallowed  up 
In  a  single  heart's  earthquake. 


And  the  tidal  wave  of  a  love  betrayed 
In  its  mighty  strength  bears  down 

The  manliness  out  of  a  strong  man's  life, 
And  leaveth  it  there  to  drown. 


So  one  strong  word  I  would  whisper  low 

In  the  ear  of  my  lady  fair, 
As  she  sits  'mid  the  ruins  of  broken  hearts 

And  smiles  at  the  wreck — Beware  ! 
18*  0 


OUR    OWN. 

THE  child  that  sports  upon  our  knee 
And  clings  to  our  embrace, 
With  all  the  happy  witchery 

That  lights  a  childish  face — 
If  he  hath  blessed  another's  arms 

And  other  birth  hath  known, 
How  coldly  do  we  view  his  charms 
Beside  our  fair,  "  Our  Own." 

A  mansion  rears  its  lofty  walls 

With  Wealth's  impress  thereon, 
With  stately  towers  and  spacious  halls 

And  sculptured  coping-stone ; 
We  upward  cast  no  envious  eye 

To  note  its  grandeur  lone, 
But,  rearing  castles  in  the  sky, 

Do  loftier  build  "  Our  Own." 

The  world  holds  forth  its  glittering  arms 

And  beckons  to  its  breast, 
Displaying  its  alluring  charms 

'Neath  Pleasure's  dazzling  crest : 

210 


OUR   OWN. 

But  turning  from  its  subtle  art 
Where  purer  joys  are  known, 

How  sweet  to  nestle  to  that  heart 
We  know  is  all  "  Our  Own  !" 

Though  lowlier  be  the  vine-clad  cot 

Than  towering  mansions  nigh, 
To  eyes  content  it  is  a  spot 

Too  dear  for  wealth  to  buy. 
There  is  the  kettle's  busy  song 

Upon  the  warm  hearthstone, 
And  joyous  faces  all  day  long 

To  glad  and  bless  "Our  Own." 

Of  all  the  wealth  of  all  the  world, 

The  dearest  and  the  best 
Is  where  affection's  wings  are  furled 

And  loving  lips  are  prest. 
'Tis  not  the  gilded  hoard  of  gold 

That  brightens  life  alone, 
But  knowing  what  we  have  and  hold 

Is  honestly  "  Our  Own." 


THE   CHURCH-BELL'S   LAMENT. 

WRITTEN    IN    THE    OLD    STONE    CHURCH    IN   FISHKILL 
VILLAGE. 

"  ]T)IMM!  boom  !"  said  an  old  church-bell, 

IJ   As  swiftly  I  hurried  by  ; 
"  Bimm  !  boom  !     I've  a  tale  to  tell, 

Oh  list  to  my  lonely  sigh  !" 
The  night  was  cold,  the  air  was  chill, 

But  so  mournfully  fell  the  tone, 
It  seemed  my  very  heart  to  thrill, 
And  I  paused  as  the  bell  went  on : 

"  Bimm  !  boom  !     I've  heard  strange  things 

Come  forth  from  the  lips  of  men, 
And  ceaselessly  my  old  tongue  swings 

As  I  think  them  o'er  again. 
'Twas  yesternight,  in  the  pale  moonlight, 

That  a  wary  plan  was  told 
To  tear  me  down  from  my  lofty  height, 

For  the  church  was  growing  old. 

"  Bimm  !  boom  !     And  I  heard  them  say 

That  the  building  was  too  small 
For  those  who  wished  to  come  and  pray 
To  the  mighty  God  of  all. 

212 


THE    CHURCH-BELL'S  LAMENT.  213 

But  I  looked  down  and  saw  all  'round 

Full  many  a  vacant  pew, 
And  I  said,  They  want  but  wider  ground 

To  indulge  the  wealthy  few. 


They  said  that  the  church  had  rusty  grown 

In  the  wearing  hand  of  Time, 
And  no  architectural  beauty  shone 

In  the  turret  where  I  chime. 
The  pews  were  low,  the  desk  too  high 

For  the  listening  flock  to  hear, 
But  I  knew  the  cause  was  a  sleepy  eye 

And  an  inattentive  ear. 


Then  louder  still  their  plans  were  voiced 

And  thus  the  word  went  round  : 
Each  stone  and  timber,  joint  and  joist, 

Let's  level  with  the  ground  ; 
And  in  their  place  a  structure  grand 

Shall  the  hand  of  Fashion  rear  ;' 
Alas  !  that  Fashion  e'er  should  stand 

'Twixt  God  and  his  creatures  here  ! 


Bimm  !  boom  !  in  this  turret  high 

For  a  century  I've  swung, 
And  tolled  the  years,  as  they  hurried  by, 

With  the  stroke  of  my  iron  tongue ; 
I've  watched  the  battle  beneath  me  here, 

I've  seen  the  victory  won  ; 
I've  I'ung  to  the  conqueror's  heart,  good  cheer, 

And  tolled  when  his  work  was  done. 


214  THE    CHURCH-BELL'S  LAMENT. 

"  I've  rung  with  joy  at  the  infant's  birth, 

I've  watched  his  course  to  fame — 
Seen  him  embraced  by  his  mother  earth 

When  back  to  her  arms  he  came ; 
I've  watched  the  gay  or  saddened  files 

As  they've  thronged  the  old  church  door  ; 
Ah  !  many  a  foot  has  trod  these  aisles 

Which  ne'er  will  tread  them  more. 


I  have  rung  out  my  merriest  peal 

For  the  maiden's  bridal-day, 
And  heard  her  vow  for  woe  or  weal 

Her  fresh  young  life  away. 
I've  seen  her  brow  grow  old  with  years 

In  the  home  she  honored  well ; 
I've  seen  her  grave  bedewed  with  tears 

As  I  struck  her  funeral  knell ; 


I've  seen  the  shadowy  churchyard  fill 

With  forms  whose  tasks  were  done ; 
In  yonder  graveyard,  cold  and  still, 

They've  gathered,  one  by  one. 
I've  seen  the  old,  the  grave,  the  gay, 

And  youth  in  its  fairest  flower, 
Like  the  leaves  of  autumn  pass  away, 

Since  I've  swung  in  this  old  church-tower. 


Bimm  !  boom  !     Oh  let  no  hand 

Be  raised  to  tear  me  down  ! 
For  Memory's  sake  let  the  old  church  stand, 

Unscathed  by  vandal's  frown. 


THE    CHURCH-BELL'S  LAMENT.  215 

'Tis  true  the  roof  is  moss-grown  now, 

And  the  lichened  walls  are  gray, 
But  there's  room  for  the  Christian  heart  to  bow 

And  the  earnest  lip  to  pray." 

The  clock  struck  twelve — the  church-bell  ceased 

Its  sad  complaint  to  croon, 
And  a  darksome  cloud,  with  silver  fleeced, 

Passed  off  from  the  full,  round  moon. 
I  looked  aloft  at  the  turret  gray, 

And  dashed  away  my  tears, 
As  I  prayed  the  bell,  untouched,  might  stay 

In  its  home  of  a  hundred  years. 


BLOOD! 

AY  !  it  is  ever  thus — "  blood,  blood  !"  you  cry 
With  your  well-cut,  aristocratic  lip  ; 
Who  lacks  it,  in  your  scrutinizing  eye, 
Lacks  every  claim  to  social  fellowship. 

You  prate  of  proud  descent  and  lines  of  kings. 
And  boast  your  own  ancestral  ties  to  me  ; 

I  love  you,  ladye  fair,  for  many  things — 
Least  of  them  all,  your  ancient  pedigree. 

I  have  found  princely  natures,  noble  blood, 

In  men  your  standard  would  set  down  as  clowns 

Their  dearest  ties,  the  Common  Brotherhood — 
Their  daily  lives,  the  most  ennobling  crowns. 

Rather  had  I  one  such  had  held  the  helm 

That  launched. my  pulses  on  Life's  fretful  flood, 

Than  that  a  score  of  princes  of  the  realm 
Had  with  diluted  greatness  cursed  my  blood. 

Blood  !  the  line  to  which  drowning  pretence  clings 
To  save  itself.     Oh  such  a  rotten  rope  ! 

Yet  deemed  the  most  acceptable  of  things 
To  lay  beneath  the  social  microscope. 
216 


BLOOD!  217 

A  man  is  what  he  is  in  spite  of  blood  ; 

If  he  have  lack  of  more  intrinsic  worth 
It  matters  little  be  he  of  the  brood 

Of  all  the  proudest  Incas  of  the  earth. 

Your  grandsire  was  a  lord,  his  sire  a  duke, 
His  sire  a  prince,  as  you  have  evidence — 

Here's  an  arithmetic  which  makes  blood  look, 
To  simple  eyes,  of  sorry  consequence  : 

To  your  grandsire  you  stand  one-fourth  related, 
To  your  greatgrandsire  you  are  eighth  by  claim ; 

To  his  proud  sire,  again,  'tis  estimated 
A  sixteenth  link  is  all  you  dare  to  name. 

Here  are  but  three  removes — one  more  again 
Leaves  to  you  but  a  thirty-second  part — 

Scai'cely  enough  to  fertilize  a  brain 

Or  have  a  marked  effect  upon  the  heart. 

Should  we  go  farther  back,  'twould  be  to  find 
The  precious  drops  become  so  very  few ; 

To  see  where  in  yourself  they  are  enshrined 
Would  be  no  easy  thing  for  me  or  you. 

To  believe  your  noble  self  the  sweet  result 

Of  honest  excellence  I  am  content ; 
My  heart  bows  low  to  worth,  but  Deus  vult 

It  never  shall  be  fettered  to  descent, 

Nor  to  the  shallow  sophistry  of  clique, 

With  its  white-handed  claims  to  high  degree — 

Pure  grains  of  human  gold  I  do  not  seek 
In  such  weak  rinsings  of  nobility. 
19 


2l8  BLOOD! 

Fools  have  been  known  to  spring  from  kings  direct, 
And  in  their  idiocy  have  grown  apace, 

While  giants  in  strength  and  kings  in  intellect 
Have  been  the  offspring  of  a  peasant  race. 

I  fear,  fair  ladye,  that  I  am  too  blind, 

Even  with  the  powerful  lens  of  habitude, 

To  honor  see  in  birth  alone,  or  find 

Transmitted  greatness  in  a  drop  of  blood. 


PRESSED    FLOWERS. 
FOUND   IN   A    BOOK   PUBLISHED   IN    1704. 

I. 

DEAD  roses  !  crumbling  here  they  lie — 
What  is  their  past  history, 
What  the  unsealed  mystery 
Left  with  these  frail  flowers  to  die. 
What  lips  have  tasted  their  perfume, 
What  eyes  grown  brighter  for  their  bloom, 
What  hand  did  this  blue  love-knot  tie? 


Pale  emblems  of  some  broken  dream, 
Broken  on  the  wheel  of  Time  ; 
Ashes  of  some  faith  sublime 

Scattered  on  Life's  hurrying  stream  ; 
Fragrant  embers  of  regret, 
Dead  and  pale  and  silent,  yet 

Full  of  eloquence  supreme  ! 


Cold  corpses  of  some  perished  love, 
Coffined  'twixt  these  sombre  pages, 
'Mid  the  words  of  buried  sages, 

219 


22Q  PRESSED  FLOWERS. 

Cherished  trifles,  ye  do  prove 

Truer  truths  than  Wisdom  preaches, 
Sweeter  truths  than  Science  teaches  : 

Truths  with  every  age  enwove — 


Truths  of  Love's  dominion  telling 
O'er  the  realms  of  Life  for  aye  : 
Though  the  ages  roll  away  ; 

Though  the  bells  of  time  be  knelling 
Strong  and  loud,  and  loud  and  strong, 
Death  of  old  and  death  of  young, 

Death  of  love  they're  never  telling. 


Come,  relics  of  some  bygone  trust, 
Come,  I  have  a  dead  hope  too — 
Dead  and  dumb  and  cold  as  you, 

Long  left  to  ruin  and  to  rust. 
Let  me  lay  you  by  its  ashes, 
'Mong  its  tarnished  golden  meshes, 

Gently  lay  you,  dust  to  dust ! 


All  the  world  has  its  dead  roses 
Hidden  from  the  eyes  of  sages, 
Shut  between  the  heart's  still  pages 

And  no  look  or  sign  discloses 
How  the  throb  of  being  centres 
Where  the  outward  never  enters,   . 

Where  some  blossom  dead  reposes  ! 


DON'T    YOU    REMEMBER? 


ROAMING  among  the  daisies,  you  and  I, 
The  tangled  drifts  of  daisies,  glad  and  young, 
Beneath  the  azure  of  a  cloudless  sky, 
The  zephyrs  catching,  as  they  wander  by, 

The  tender  accents  falling  from  your  tongue — 
Don't  you  remember? 


A  country  glow  upon  my  girlish  cheek, 

As  side  by  side  the  wooded  slopes  we  rise, 
Or  in  the  fresh  spring  mould  the  beech-sprouts  seek, 
Or  part  the  rushes  by  the  winding  creek, 
Reading  sweet  secrets  in  each  other's  eves — 
Don't  you  remember? 


The  soft  wind  tossing  back  my  light  brown  hair, 

The  robins  building  in  the  apple  trees  ; 
A  scent  of  roses  on  the  morning  air, 
The  birth  of  buds  about  us  everywhere, 

A  warm  and  tender  gladness  on  the  breeze — 
Don't  you  remember? 

19*  221 


22  DON'T    YOU  REMEMBER? 

IV. 

The  brook  that  leaped  adown  the  mountain  height 
And  sped  away,  nor  ever  looked  behind 

As  if  it  feared  the  stern  old  mountain  might 

Find  out  the  secret  of  its  hasty  flight, 
And  follow  on  its  truant  feet  to  bind — 
Don't  you  remember? 


The  hills  we  climbed  through  merry  baths  of  dew 

To  catch  the  sun's  light  on  our  laughing  faces, 
Ere  he  should  cast  his  beams  on  hearts  less  true 
Than  yours  to  me,  love,  or  than  mine  to  you, 
Wasting  the  treasure  of  his  first  embraces — 
Don't  you  remember? 


The  stream  meandering  through  the  vale  below, 

The  marshy  meadow's  reedy  banks  between, 
Where  the  coquettish  cowslips  flirted  so 
With  every  breeze,  or  bent  their  bright  lips  low 
And  kissed  the  water  from  their  beds  of  green — 
Don't  you  remember  ? 


The  bit  of  river  southward  of  the  town, 

Pale  in  the  dawn,  like  some  gray  lock  of  hair 
That  Winter  might  have  clipped  from  his  old  crown, 
And  given  to  Spring  to  keep  when  he  was  gone, 
In  kindly  memory  of  him  to  wear — 
Don't  you  remember  ? 


DON'T   YOU  REMEMBER?  223 

VIII. 

The  pollard  willow,  where  the  honey-bees 

Gave  concerts  in  the  branches  all  day  long, 
The  blackbirds  whistling  in  the  hickory  trees, 
The  bob-o'-link  on  a  milkweed  in  the  breeze, 
Almost  committing  suicide  with  song — 
Don't  you  remember  ? 


The  fallen  petals  by  the  fruit  trees  given 

To  drape  with  white  the  emerald  robes  of  May, 
Along  the  country  lanes  and  roadsides  driven, 
As  if  some  young  bride  in  her  flight  to  heaven 
Her  bridal  wreath  had  scattered  on  the  way — 
Don't  you  remember? 


The  blood-root  that  came  up  with  such  a  shriek 
Whene'er  we  pulled  it  from  its  hiding-places, 
The  plants  and  mosses  that  we  used  to  seek, 
While  Earth  with  her  rent  bosom  could  not  speak, 
But  as  we  robbed  her  breathed  hard  in  our  faces — 
Don't  you  remember? 


The  old  beech-woods,  upon  the  hillside  steep, 

Where  the  wild  ladyslippers  always  grew, 
Fair  golden  harvests  that  you  loved  to  reap — 
Sweet  golden  harvests  that  I  loved  to  keep — 

Blessed  by  the  sunshine  and  baptized  with  dew — 
Don't  you  remember? 


224  DON'T    TOU  REMEMBER? 


The  quaint  old  garden  with  its  graveled  walks, 

Its  grass-plots  starred  with  golden  dandelions, 
Its  daffodils,  May-pinks  and  hollyhocks, 
Its  white  syringa  with  sweet-smelling  stalks, 
And  neighbors  coming  after  slips  and  scions — 
Don't  you  remember? 


There,  'neath  my  chin,  you  held  the  buttercup, 

Some  truth  you  saucily  declared  to  prove ; 
Then  cried,  when  bashfully  my  eyes  would  droop, 
A  girl's  blush  is  the  flag  her  heart  runs  up 
To  signal  its  surrender  unto  Love  !" — 
Don't  you  remember  ? 


And  then  you  clasped  my  brown  hand  in  your  own- 

You  know  how  willfully  you  could  persist — 
There  was  a  strange  new  music  in  your  tone, 
Thrilling  and  sweet — well — we  were  all  alone, 
I  may  mistake,  but  were  my  lips  not  kissed? — 
Do  you  remember  ? 


Then  how  the  village-bells  rung  out  one  day, 
How  joyfully  we  two  walked  side  by  side  ; 
The  church  door  opened  and  we  knelt  to  pray, 
Friends  crowded  'round  their  kindly  words  to  say, 
And  shake  your  hand,  and  some  one  called  me 
bride — 

Don't  you  remember? 


DON'T    TOU  REMEMBER?  225 

XVI. 

Our  bark,  since  then,  has  touched  on  many  strands, 
Our  wandering  feet  have  roamed  in  many  climes, 
Our  brows  been  kissed  by  suns  of  far-off  lands ; 
New  friends,  dear  love,  have  clasped  our  willing  hands, 
But  the  old  times — the  ever-dear  old  times — 
We  both  remember. 
P 


CREED. 


I   BELIEVE  if  I  should  die, 
And  you  should  kiss  my  eyelids  when  I  lie 
Cold,  dead  and  dumb  to  all  the  woi'ld  contains, 
The  folded  orbs  would  open  at  thy  breath, 
And  from  its  exile  in  the  isles  of  death 

Life  would  come  gladly  back  along  my  veins ! 


I  believe  if  I  were  dead, 
And  you  upon  my  lifeless  heart  should  tread, 

Not  knowing  what  the  poor  clod  chanced  to  be, 
It  would  find  sudden  pulse  beneath  the  touch 
Of  him  it  ever  loved  in  life  so  much, 

And  throb  again,  warm,  tender,  true  to  thee. 


I  believe  if  on  my  grave, 
Hidden  in  woody  deeps  or  by  the  wave, 

Your  eyes  should  drop  some  warm  tears  of  regret, 
From  every  salty  seed  of  your  dear  grief, 
Some  fair,  sweet  blossom  would  leap  into  leaf, 

To  prove  death  could  not  make  my  love  forget. 

226 


CREED.  227 


I  believe  if  I  should  fade 
Into  those  mystic  realms  where  light  is  made, 

And  you  should  long  once  more  my  face  to  see, 
I  would  come  forth  upon  the  hills  of  night 
And  gather  stars,  like  fagots,  till  thy  sight, 

Led  by  their  beacon  blaze,  fell  full  on  me ! 


I  believe  my  faith  in  thee, 
Strong  as  my  life,  so  nobly  placed  to  be, 

I  would  as  soon  expect  to  see  the  sun   " 
Fall  like  a  dead  king  from  his  height  sublime, 
His  glory  stricken  from  the  throne  of  time, 

As  thee  unworth  the  worship  thou  hast  won. 


I  believe  who  hath  not  loved, 
Hath  half  the  sweetness  of  his  life  unproved  ; 

Like  one  who,  with  the  grape  within  his  grasp, 
Drops  it  with  all  its  crimson  juice  unpressed, 
And  all  its  luscious  sweetness  left  unguessed, 

Out  from  his  careless  and  unheeding  clasp. 


I  believe  love,  pure  and  true, 
Is  to  the  soul  a  sweet,  immortal  dew 

That  gems  life's  petals  in  its  hours  of  dusk — 
The  waiting  angels  see  and  recognize 
The  rich  crown  jewel,  love,  of  Paradise, 

When  life  falls  from  us  like  a  withered  husk. 


A    TOAST. 

GIVEN  ON  THE  BIRTH-DAY  ANNIVERSARY  OF  J.  B. 
SLAWSON. 

OUR  host — to-day  around  his  board  we  meet 
In  mutual  joy  his  natal  day  to  greet ; 
Honor  to  pay  the  well-spent  years  of  one 
Whose  race,  we  pray,  is  yet  not  halfway  run. 
Could  all  whom  he  has  blest  be  here  this  hour, 
Hearts  heaped  with  love  would  be  his  birth-day  dower, 
And  many  a  lip,  unseen  by  us  to-day, 
Smiles  o'er  the  sorrows  he  has  turned  away. 
Fill  up  your  glasses,  gentle  friends,  fill  high — 
Drink  to  the  generous  heart  that's  never  dry, 
Drink  to  the  lip  o'er  its  own  good  deeds  dumb, 
Drink  to  our  host — fill  high,  a  bumper,  come — 
Long  life,  good  friends,  good  fortune  be  his  own, 
Blessings  spring  thick  from  all  good  seeds  he's  sown, 
And  may  Old  Age,  when  wandering  this  way, 
His  silver  banner  long  forget  to  lay 
Above  the  honored  brow  we  toast  to-day. 


TO-WHOO! 

AN  old  owl  sat  in  a  willow  tree 
Crying  aloud,  Who  will  shelter  me? 
Flapping  his  wings  in  the  heavy  dew, 
And  mournfully  muttering  "  Whoo,  whoo,  whoo? 
Who'll  give  me  shelter,"  the  poor  bird  said — 
1  Me  without  refuge  or  board  or  bed, 
With  a  broken  heart  and  an  aching  head, 
And  wings  as  heavy,  as  heavy  as  lead — 
Freezing  out  here  in  this  villainous  dew — 
Who  will  be  good  to  me  ?  whoo,  whoo,  whoo  ?" 

A  young  owl  sat  in  an  opposite  tree, 

His  fine  feathers  picking  right  lazily. 

He  listened  a  while  to  the  other's  complaint, 

But  hadn't  the  patience,  you  know,  of  a  saint ; 

So  he  cried,  "  Who'll  shelter  your  old  gray  head? 

Fool !  if  you're  poor  you  might  better  be  dead. 

A  sexton,  never  a  banker,  I  trow, 

Is  the  man  to  call  when  your  purse  gets  low — 

The  crowd  makes  room  for  a  corpse  to  pass  through- 

If  his  coffin  be  pine,  no  one  asks,  whoo,  whoo  ?" 

20  229 


230  TO-WHOO! 

"  Whence  comes  this  voice?"  cried  the  elder  owl, 
With  trembling  tone  and  ominous  scowl  ; 

"  Shall  you,  then,  never  be  old  and  gray, 
That  you  fling  your  impudent  taunt  this  way? 
Where  were  you  born,  and  where  were  you  raised, 
And  which  of  your  parents,  pray,  was  crazed, 
That  you  were  not  taught  with  rod  and  rule 
Your  rude,  impertinent  tongue  to  school  ? 
Rare  birds  have  they  been  that  feathered  you  : 
Who    were    they,   young   gentleman — whoo,    whoo, 
whoo  ?" 

"  My  father,"  the  younger  owl  replied, 
"  Was  a  prime  old  '  governor,'  full  of  pride  ; 
I  drank  his  wine,  on  his  funds  had  fun, 
And  he  applauded  this  son  of  a  gun. 
His  wife,  '  the  old  lady,'  was  fond  of  a  lark — 
Her  day,  like  Fashion's,  began  after  dark. 
She  gave  me  a  taste  for  wandering  from  home, 
And  my  favorite  air  was,  '  I  love  to  roam.' 
I  soon  cut  them  both  and  away  from  them  flew ; 
Who  wants    such   old   shackles   about   him — whoo, 
whoo  ?" 

"  Where  were  you  born?"  the  elder  owl  ci'ied, 

Holding  his  heavy  wings  close  to  his  side. 
"  In  the  chestnut  tree,"  was  the  quick  reply, 
"•  Farmer  Top-knot's  henroost  very  close  by." 
"  Alas  !  and  alas  !"  groaned  the  elder  owl, 
"  You're  my  own  lost  child,  you  ungrateful  fowl ! 
I  am  breathing  my  last ;  come  hold  up  my  head — 
Receive  my  last  gasp  for  I'm  very  near  dead — 
What  child  was  e'er  petted  as  I  petted  you  ? 
Tell  me  that,  you  young  rascal — whoo,  whoo,  whoo?" 


TO-WHOOl  231 

In  vain  did  the  old  owl  mutter  and  moan, 
He  was  left  in  his  willow  tree  all  alone. 
His  child  had  fled  far  from  the  cheerless  spot, 
Nor  offered  to  ease  the  other's  hard  lot. 
There  the  old  fellow  thought  of  his  son  in  health, 
With  plenty  of  chickens  and  wholesome  wealth, 
Leaving  him  under  that  lowering  sky, 
Advising  him,  too,  to  make  haste  and  die ! 
And  he  moaned,  as  he  sat  there  feeble  and  cold, 
;  It  is  hard  to  be  desolate  when  we  are  old  !" 

Then  he  thought,  "  Did  I  teach  him  his  duty  when 

young  ? 
Lies  the  fault  with  him  or  with  those  whence  he 

sprung  ? 

O  fathers  and  mothers,  the  sapling  small 
Must  be  trained  when  tender  if  trained  at  all ! 
Trim  up  the  shoots  that  are  growing  too  bold, 
If  shelter  and  shade  you'd  find  there  when  old." 
With  a  flutter  and  mutter  and  shivering  groan, 
A  few  sad  tears  and  an  unheard  moan, 
The  owl  fell  dead,  and  no  mortal  knew 
Nor  asked,  as  they  kicked  him  aside,  whoo,  whoo? 


THE    SUICIDE. 

THE  stars  on  high, 
And  the  young  moon  in  the  summer  sky 
Drifting,  like  some  lone  canoe, 
O'er  its  seas  of  jeweled  blue — 
"  I  walk  by  the  river, 

Where  rushes  quiver, 
And  the  dull  moan  and  monotone 

Of  surging  waters  fill  mine  ear — 
Alone,  alone,  alone,  alone  ! 

I  clasp  my  hands  and  wander  here." 

I  see  the  gleam 

Of  quivering  star-lamps  on  the  stream, 
As  if  the  beacons  they  might  be 
Guiding  the  river  to  the  sea. 
"  I  pause  and  listen 

While  they  glisten 
On  the  slow  but  steady  flow 

Of  river  sweeping  to  the  sea — 
Echo,  echo,  echo,  echo 

Only  cometh  back  to  me." 
232 


THE  SUICIDE.  233 

;  I  hush  my  heart — 
I  watch  the  mystic  night-birds  dart 
From  sea  to  land,  from  land  to  sea, 
Like  restless  souls  in  misery. 
The  rolling  river 
Sweeps  on  for  ever 
To  depth  unknown,  where  stars  shine  down 

On  treasures  hid  by  the  miser  sea — 
Alone,  alone,  alone,  alone ! 

No  voice,  no  words,  no  love  for  me ! 

•  For  evermore 

On  rolling  wave,  by  reedy  shore, 
Must  mine  eyes  see  no  other  fate, 
My  heart  beat  on  so  desolate  ? 
O  rushing  river, 
Bear  on  for  ever 

My  weary  soul,  where  darkly  roll 

The  deep  streams  of  eternity — 

In  thy  strong  arms  enfold,  enfold 

The  heart  that  gives  its  life  to  thee !" 

The  stars  on  high, 
The  slender  moon  in  the  silent  sky, 
Drifting  like  some  spirit  bark 
O'er  its  seas  of  starry  dark — 

The  river  flowing, 

God  only  knowing 
What  its  flight  hides  out  of  sight, 

As  on  it  rushes  to  the  sea — 
Alone,  alone,  alone,  alone  ! 

Drifting  to  eternity ! 

20* 


TWILIGHT. 


I  WANDERED  forth  at  set  of  sun 
The  harvest  work  was  almost  done, 
And  closed  were  doors  of  barn  and  bin, 
Shutting  the  garnered  harvest  in. 


Down  to  the  sunset-tinted  stream 
To  drink  was  led  the  tired  team  ; 
And  lowing  cattle  from  the  hill 
Strolled  homeward  past  the  silent  mill. 


Then  came  some  love-belated  swain 
Whistling  upon  his  load  of  grain, 
While  here  and  there  the  bending  leaves 
Gave  kisses  to  the  ripened  sheaves. 


The  wild  flowers  on  the  steep  side-hill 
Drew  close  together  with  a  thrill, 
Whispering,  'mid  twilight's  dewy  tears, 
Love  tales  into  each  other's  ears. 
234 


TWILIGHT.  235 


Beside  the  farmer's  cottage  door 
The  father  held  his  babe  once  more, 
While  little  ones,  by  twos  and  threes, 
Were  clustered  at  his  sturdy  knees. 


I  saw  no  sin,  no  shame,  no  frown, 
And  as  Night  drew  her  curtain  down 
She  said,  "  Content  is  Life's  best  store 
Go  teach  thy  heart  to  ask  no  more  !" 


TRUST. 

BE  of  good  cheer ;   the  sorrows  we  lament 
We  yet  shall  know  as  mercies  kindly  meant — 
Angels  pass  into  hearts  by  sorrow  rent, 

All  in  the  Lord's  good  time  ! 

The  cloud  will  pass,  the  sun  will  shine  again, 
The  bow  of  promise  arch  the  angry  main, 
Peace  follow  storm  and  pleasure  follow  pain, 
All  in  the  Lord's  good  time  ! 

The  wound  will  heal,  the  burden  will  grow  light, 
The  wandering  footsteps  will  be  guided  right, 
The  thorniest  path  seem  paved  with  blessings  bright, 
All  in  the  Lord's  good  time  ! 

Grief's  sobs  will  turn  to  smiles ;  the  lip  of  woe, 
The  radiant  light  of  love  and  joy  shall  know, 
And  Faith  will  triumph  at  Doubt's  ovei'throw, 
All  in  the  Lord's  good  time  ! 

Though  life's  bleak  waves  are  tempest-tossed  and  chill, 
The  Master's  voice  will  utter,  "  Peace,  be  still"— 
The  raging  billows  bow  before  his  will, 

All  in  the  Lord's  good  time  ! 
23fi 


TRUST.  237 

And  we,  the  brittle  toys  by  Time  resigned, 

Tossed  from  his  wearied  hands,  bruised,  broken,  blind, 

The  heights  of  everlasting  life  shall  find, 

All  in  the  Lord's  good  time  ! 


FALLACIA. 


DREAMING  here  while  stars  are  paling 
On  the  brow  of  night  again, 
While  the  winter  winds  are  wailing 
And  the  moon  is  on  the  wane — 

Dreaming  here,  weaving  fancies — 
Fancies  for  my  busy  brain. 


Dreaming  here  with  tear-drops  welling 
From  a  heart  whose  hopes  are  vain — 

Heart  with  proud  ambition  swelling, 
Swelling  but  to  sink  again — 

Dreaming  here,  weaving  fancies — 
Fancies  from  a  fevered  brain. 


Dreaming  here  while  music's  measure 
O'er  the  earth  sweeps  wild  refrain, 

And  the  thoughts  I've  loved  to  treasure 
Thrill  my  spirit-harp  again — 

Dreaming  here,  weaving  fancies — 
Fancies  from  my  throbbing  brain. 

238 


FALL  AC  I  A.  239 

Dreaming  here,  alone  and  lonely, 

"  What,"  I  whisper — "  what  is  fame? 

Pierian  sisters,  tell  me  only 

What  it  is  that  men  call  fame — 

Toiling  for  it,  dying  for  it, 
Hearts  aglow  and  souls  aflame?" 

Shines  the  moon  on  frozen  waters — 

Ghostly  moon  on  ghostly  snow — 
Silent  all  Mnemosyne's  daughters, 

Comes  no  whisper  sweet  and  low — 
"  Speak,"  I  plead,  "  ye  fabled  Nine, 

Tell  me  what  I  fain  would  know." 

Waiting  here,  alone  and  lonely, 

"  What,"  I  ask  ye,  "  what  is  fame?" 

Coldly  comes  the  answer,  "  Only 
Shade  of  shadow,  hollow  flame — 

Dreamer's  vision,  poet's  fancy, 
Mocking  tempter,  empty  aim  ! 

'  Ignis  fatuus,  fatal  wooer, 

Flushing  fairest  as  it  flees, 
Leaving  its  deceived  pursuer 
'Midst  the  fierce  Eumenides, 

With  their  fearful  fingers  tearing 
At  the  vitals  of  his  ease. 

'  Winsome  traitor,  fleeting  pleasure, 

Very  fair  and  very  false, 
Stealing  all  the  golden  treasure 

From  the  soul's  unguarded  vaults — 
Leaving  but  the  cold,  gray  ashes 
Of  the  pure  flame  that  exalts. 


240  FALLA  CIA. 

"  Luring,  laughing,  gayly  mocking, 

Swift  within  the  soul  to  creep, 
In  Ambition's  cradle  rocking 

Feverish  dreams  that  will  not  sleep — 

Will  not  hide  their  glaring  eyeballs — 
Will  not,  will  not  silence  keep. 

"  On  the  shore  where  waves  are  beating 

Write  thy  name  upon  the  sand  ; 

Lo  !  the  waters,  when  retreating, 

Bear  it  from  the  silent  strand — 

Ask  them  for  the  vanished  writing — 
Writing  written  by  thy  hand  ! 

"  Saw  you  not  the  letters  written 

Clear  and  fair  when  first  you  came  ? 
Saw  you  not  the  white  sand  smitten 
Smooth  as  marble  ?     This  is  Fame — 

Fame  the  tempter,  Fame  the  robber- 
Robbing  life  to  make  a  name  !" 

From  the  shadows  thus  the  voices 
Answered  me  in  startling  strain, 

Saying,  "  Well  the  heart  rejoices 
When  its  bitter  foe  is  slain" — 

Saying,  "  Dreamer,  dream  no  longer- 
Take  Life's  real  road  again." 

Asks  my  heart,  the  voice  defying, 
"  If  the  poet's  gift  be  mine, 

Must  I  thrust  it  dead  or  dying 
From  its  altar-stone  divine  ? — 

Must  I  quench  its  fires  immortal — 
Radiant  fires  I  know  are  mine  ? 


FALLACIA.  241 

"  Quench  them  with  the  bitter  water 

Of  renunciating  tears, 
Tell  my  soul  that  thou  hast  taught  her 
Something  worse  than  all  her  fears — 

Stretching  hopes,  like  sudden  corpse's— 
Out,  unshrouded,  on  .their  biers? 

"  Must  I  lay  my  fingers  tightly 

At  the  red  roots  of  my  heart, 
Rending  out  the  joys  unsightly 
Thou  hast  named  the  poet's  art — 
Dying  in  my  songless  silence — 
Chosen  as  the  better  part  ? 

"  Eos,  then,  and  Leto,  hear  me  ! 

By  thy  stars  and  by  thy  dawn ! 
By  the  midnight  drawing  near  me, 
By  the  gloom — hours  creeping  on — 
Life  is  stricken  of  its  sweetness — 
Life  beholds  its  glory  gone." 

Came  the  voice,  "  Nay,  poet-maiden, 
Keep  thy  gifts  from  sudden  death !     ' 

Keep  thy  songs,  and  keep  them  laden 
With  the  poet's  noblest  breath — 

Breath  whose  sweetest  aspirations 
Words  of  cheer  to  others  saith. 

"  Sing  the  infant  to  its  slumbers, 

Sing  the  dying  to  his  rest ; 
Pour  the  music  of  thy  numbers 
In  the  sinner's  guilty  breast — 

Lay  the  poet's  balm  of  healing 
On  the  heart  of  the  opprest. 

21  Q 


242  FALL  AC  I  A. 

"  Sing  to  earth's  defiled  daughters 

Songs  embalmed  in  mercy's  dew, 
Sweeter  far  than  flowing  waters 
Which  the  famed  Macaenas  knew — 

Lead  the  footsteps  of  the  wanderer 
By  thy  songs  ta  pathways  new. 

"  Sing  the  skeptic  from  his  scorning, 
Sing  the  sinner  from  his  shame, 
Sing  to  Error  earnest  warning- 
Sing,  O  poet !  not  for  fame — 

Fame  the  tempter,  Fame  the  mocker- 
Shade  of  shadow,  empty  aim  !" 

In  the  shadows  die  the  voices, 

Fades  the  Presence  from  the  room, 

Dream  of  Fame,  retreating  poises 
On  its  pinnacle  of  doom  ! 

Poet's  vision,  dreamer's  fancy — 
Leto  cradles  in  her  gloom. 


INVOCATION. 

COME  to  me,  Sleep  ! 
Thy  silent  seal  upon  my  forehead  set ; 
Weave  o'er  mine  eyelids  thy  mysterious  net, 
Bring  me  oblivion  without  regret — 

Teach  fond  memory  to  forget ! 

Come  to  me,  Sleep  ! 
Shut  out  the  glaring  grievances  of  day, 
Thy  soothing  hand  upon  my  sore  heart  lay, 
Close  to  the  bank  where  Death's  cold  waters  play, 
Guide  and  lead  me  safe  away ! 

Come  to  me,  Sleep  ! 

For  me  the  visions  of  thy  dreamland  paint, 
Hush  on  my  lip  each  wearisome  complaint, 
Break  from  my  soul  the  shackles  of  restraint, 
Cheer  the  spirit  prone  to  faint ! 

Come  to  me,  Sleep  ! 

Shut  me  a  while  outside  the  world's  great  gate, 
And,  ere  I  know  again  my  mortal  state, 
Teach  me  to  fearless  face  my  frowning  fate, 
Bravely  still  to  watch  and  wait. 

243 


THE  LOVER  TO  THE  BLUE  RIBBON  THAT 
HAD  TIED  LAURA'S  LETTERS. 

A  FADED,  rumpled,  once  how  dear,  a  thing! 
I  never  thought  with  such  indifferent  eye 

Its  pretty,  dainty  love-knots  to  untie, 
Or  stigmatize  it  as  a  "bit  of  string!" 
But  somehow  Cupid  wears  a  restless  wing. 

The  sweet  epistles  that  the  ribbon  tied 
Have  also  lost  their  power  to  soothe  or  sting. 

I  really  thought  they'd  thrill  me  till  I  died  ! 
Strange  how  Old  Time  loves  to  obliterate 

A  fellow's  "  deathless  love"  in  this  cool  way, 
And  turn  to  blessings  what  seemed  "  frowning  fate," 

And  make  his  angels  prove  but  common  clay ! 
What  this  blue  ribbon  bound  I  once  held  higher 
Than  life  :  to-day  they  lit  the  parlor  fire  ! 

244 


AT    ADA'S    TOMB. 

POOR  is  that  life  so  loved  its  little  all 
May  hide  beneath  a  coffin  and  a  pall ; 
Content  to  run  its  God-allotted  term. 
Only  to  fill  a  grave  or  feed  a  worm  ! 
Whose  chiseled  urn  alone  remains  to  tell 
That  life  was  his,  and  that  he  loved  it  well — 
Leaves  to  the  world  no  legacy  beside 
The  fact  that  he  was  born  and  lived  and  died, 
And  found  in  life  no  nobler  mission  taught 
Than  to  exist,  to  perish  and  be  naught ! 

Thine,  gentle  being,  was  the  loftier  aim 
That  shuns  the  vulgar  patronage  of  fame, 
That  held  the  cup  to  lips  that  were  athirst, 
And  bent  the  knee  for  burdened  souls  sin-curst ; 
That  meekly  owned  the  earthly  honor  sweet 
To  pluck  the  thorns  from  other  bleeding  feet ; 
Thine  every  day,  like  daisies  in  the  sod, 
A  bright  but  humble  offering  to  thy  God. 
Along  mine  own  thy  life  in  beauty  lies, 
A  path  by  which  to  join  thee  in  the  skies : 
Thy  words,  thy  smiles,  thy  kindly  deeds  remain 
To  cheer,  exalt,  ennoble  and  sustain  ! 

2,1  *  245 


246  AT  ADA'S   TOMB. 

Back  from  thy  grave,  along  my  lonely  days, 
Thy  bright  existence  casts  its  golden  rays, 
Lighting,  as  sunset  lights  the  clouded  west, 
Joys  thou  didst  plant  within  my  stricken  breast. 

In  hours  when  anguish  most  my  heart  enthralls 

Thy  memory,  like  a  benediction,  falls, 

And  like  some  sweet  Gregorian  chant  I  hear 

Thy  life's  sweet  melody  upon  mine  ear. 

The  vesper-bells  of  love  above  thy  tomb 

Mingle  their  chimes  with  hope's  perpetual  bloom, 

And  'mid  the  toils  of  earth  and  earthly  things 

I  hear  the  beating  of  an  angel's  wings ! 


FAIR    COZ. 


"  ^\  T  7HAT  is  that  in  your  hair,  fair  coz, 

VV    What  is  that  in  you  hair?" 
"  'Tis  a  gem  of  exceeding  beauty  and  size, 
Of  Brazilian  mines — a  marvelous  prize  ; 
'Tis  a  jewel  white  with  the  captured  light 
Of  ages  condensed  in  a  bauble  bright — 
A  diamond  it  is  called." 

II. 

"A  diamond,  fairest  coz,  you  say?" 

A  bauble,  nay,  oh  nay  ! — 
'Tis  the  sweat  of  a  hundred  human  brows 
Spilled  under  curses  and  wrung  from  blows ; 
'Tis  the  sinews  and  strength  of  a  thousand  slaves, 
The  phosphorent  light  from  a  thousand  graves — 

'Tis  this  you  have  in  your  hair. 

III. 

"  What  is  that  on  your  shoulders,  coz — 

Your  shoulders  so  soft  and  white?" 
"  'Tis  a  bit  of  exquisite  hand- wrought  lace 
I  would  not  for  worlds  have  a  rent  deface — 
A  beautiful  thing :  see  the  rare  design 
Of  Indian  lilies  and  tropic  vine — 
A  fichu  it  is  called." 

247 


248  FAIR    COZ. 


A  bit  of  lace,  you  say?     Oh  no  ! 

I  see  but  a  fair  young  girl 
With  toiling  fingers  and  heart  full  of  care, 
Weaving  her  life  in  this  tracery  rare, 
For  a  cruel  crust  and  a  crueler  bed, 
A  pillow  of  stone  for  a  virtuous  head : 

Of  these  is  your  fichu  made. 


"  Of  what  is  your  toilette  made,  fair  coz, — 

Of  what  is  your  toilette  made  ?" 
"  Of  jewels  and  silks  and  marvelous  lace 
Which  a  princess  royal  well  might  grace — 
Bracelets  of  pearl  with  emerald  clasp, 
Girdle  of  gems  with  a  golden  hasp  : 
Of  these  is  my  toilette  made." 


Of  gems  and  laces  and  girdles  gold? 

Of  something  beside,  fair  coz. 
"Pis  made  of  the  bitter  and  terrible  cost 
That  might  have  saved  hundreds  of  women  lost- 
Of  eyes  that  glare  with  a  stony  stare 
At  the  iron  face  of  their  own  despair : 

Of  these  is  your  toilette  made  !" 


SONNETS. 


RENUNCIATION. 

MY  love  died  hard — I  clutched  its  snowy  throat 
And  watched  its  frantic  graspings  at  my  heart- 
Saw  its  sweet  eyes  in  mortal  anguish  start — 

Heard  its  wild  cries  for  mercy  overfloat 

The  blows  with  which  its  pleading  lips  I  smote. 
Relentlessly  I  pressed  it  to  its  doom, 

One  bitter  word  upon  its  forehead  wrote, 

Then  thrust  the  dead  outside  the  gates  of  Gloom. 

I  did  the  murder — ay !  this  hand  so  white, 
So  soft  and  pale  and  womanish  a  thing, 

Held  in  its  slender  grasp  what  could  requite 
Forgotten  vows  and  falsehood's  cruel  sting. 

I  slew  it—  ay !  but  dying  at  the  root 

Of  Life  in  flower,  it  poisoned  all  the  fruit. 

249 


THE    MAIDEN. 

I  MUST  send  back  his  letters,  and  all  these 
Sweet  tokens  of  his  fond  and  tender  truth  ? 

Love  on  the  lees  is  bitter  wine,  foi'sooth ! 
Oh  just  once  more  let  me,  on  bended  knees, 
Press  to  my  heart  its  hoard  of  memories  ! 

These  letters,  withered  flowers — this  lock  of  hair — 
I  kiss  them,  clasp  them — God  in  heaven,  who  sees 

My  grief,  forgives  its  passionate  despair  ! 
We  quarreled — yes  !  and  for  so  slight  a  thing  ! 

How  was  it?  fault  of  mine,  or  his?     Ah  well ! 
It  brooks  not  now — there  !  give  him  back  his  ring, 

Warm  from  my  hand,  and  for  me  say  farewell ! 
Shall  the  world  mock  me?     Nay  !  defend  me,  Pride  ! 
But  oh  !  ere  this  blow  came  would  I  had  died  ! 

250 


THE    MAN. 

YOU  heard  my  bell,  Victor  !     I  rang  for  you. 
Here  !  clear  this  rubbish  from  my  escritoire  I 

That  last  flirtation  really  gathered  more 
Love-tokens — gloves  and  notes  and  ribbons  blue — 

Than  I  supposed  ;  throw  them  all  out  of  door  ; 
I  do  not  want  them  lumbering  up  my  room — 

Ah  !  what  is  that  ?     A  little  sprig  of  rue  ? 
It  does  not  smell  well,  'pon  my  word.     Exhume 
The  other  trinkets  and  that  lock  of  hair 

From  yonder  secret  drawer.     I  had  not  thought 
The  little  lady  had  so  much  to  spare ! 

Make  haste,  you  idle  fellow,  is  all  out? 
Well  dress  me  now  for  Lady  Hovey's  ball ; 
I  meet  a  new  star  there — Fay  Duvenal. 

251 


TO    A   CAGED    MOCKING-BIRD. 

O  WILLING  warbler — whistler  of  the  wood  ! 
When  sunny  zephyrs  sweep  the  soft  South  land, 

And  Spring  sows  all  the  soil  with  scented  hand, 
And  fringy  ferns  fan  the  faint  forest  flood  ; 
Oh,  best  and  blithest  of  the  birdling  brood, 

Why  do  I  find  thee  caroling,  captured  here, 
Thy  mellow,  mocking  melody  imbued 

'Twixt  prison  bars  with  all  its  wildwood  cheer? 
Grand  Maestro  of  the  tuneful  tribes  that  bide 

Within  yon  vast  cathedral  of  live-oak  ; 
High  Priest  of  plumy  poets,  sending  wide 

The  notes  which  peace,  good-will  and  love  invoke. 
Thou  teachest,  psalmist  sweet,  how  we  should  rise 
Like  thy  brave  song,  above  adversities. 


TO    ONE    BELOVED. 

I   KNOW,  to-night,  thou  art  among  the  gay, 
The  centre  of  a  light  and  joyous  throng, 
Who  hang  upon  thy  laugh,  thy  jest,  thy  song ; 
I  know  the  dawn  will  gather,  cold  and  gray, 
And  find  me  waiting  thee  till  break  of  day. 
Our  lives  together  have  known  no  alloy, 
And,  dearest,  thy  delight  is  mine  alway. 

Though  thou  art  absent  I  am  with  thee  now  ; 
Thought,  like  some  stalwart  swimmer,  parts  the  waves, 
And,  eager  for  the  resting-place  he  craves, 

Leaps,  nude  and  glowing,  from  the  amber  tide 
Of  Memory,  and,  rushing  to  thy  arms, 
His  dripping  limbs  in  thy  caresses  warms. 

22  253 


TO    MY    PEN. 

I   SCARCE  can  tell  if  friend  thou  art,  or  foe — 
If  most  I  have  to  praise  thee  or  to  blame. 
In  the  lost  years  unto  my  hand  you  came, 
And  when  I  would  I  could  not  let  you  go. 
That  thou  hast  been  a  solace  oft,  I  know — 
That  I  have  learned  to  love  thee  I  must  own  ; 
But  this  confession  scarcely  will  atone 
For  moments  spent  with  thee  that  I  may  owe 
To  languid  leisure  or  to  Fashion's  hour. 
A  duty  never  yet  I  left  for  thee 

Undone  or  incomplete  ;  but  I  have  fled, 
Perhaps  too  oft,  the  social  tyrant's  power, 
O  pen  of  mine,  to  feel  myself  set  free 

When  chained  to  thy  sweet  tyrannies  instead 

254 


LAKE    PONTCHARTRAIN. 

INTO  thy  sapphire  wave,  fair  Pontchartrain, 
Slow  sinks  the  setting  sun ;  the  distant  sail, 
On  far  horizon's  edge,  glides  hushed  and  pale, 
Like  some  escaping  spirit  o'er  the  main. 
The  sea-gull  soars,  then  tastes  thy  wave  again  ; 
The  bearded  forests  on  thy  sandy  shore 
In  silence  stand,  e'en  as  they  stood  of  yore 
While  yet  the  red  man  held  his  savage  reign, 
And  dai'ing  Iberville's  adventurous  prow 
As  yet  had  never  cut  thy  purple  wave, 
Nor  swung  the  shadow  of  his  shining  sail 

Across  the  bark  of  the  Biloxi  brave. 
Ah,  placid  lake  !  where  are  thy  warriors  now"? 

Where  their  abiding-places — where  their  grave? 

255 


TO  THE   MOUSE   THAT  NIBBLED  MY  MSS. 

AND  so,  my  little  friend,  you're  taking  pains 
To  prove  yourself  a  bit  of  a  bas-bleu — 

A  most  unwise  thing,  rest  assured,  to  do  ; 
For  if  there's  aught  on  earth  "  pays  bad,"  'tis  brains  ; 
The  world,  too  has  a  horror  of  ink-stains. 

Last  night,  I  see  you  tried  a  simple  sonnet, 
The  night  before  some  lively  love-refrains  ; 

You'll  be  more  popular,  depend  upon  it, 
If  you  restrict  yourself  to  bread  and  cheese. 

Dress  well,  dance  well,  make  the  salute  polite, 
At  Fashion's  altar  crook  your  cringing  knees  ; 

Get  drunk,  do  anything,  my  friend,  but  write : 
Take  my  advice — I  warn  you  from  the  brink 
Of  social  suicide  by  pen  and  ink. 
256 


SACRAMENTUM    AMORIS. 

IF  I  should  lift  my  lips  to  yours, 
What  would  you  do  ? 
Kiss  them  and  call  me  friend,  perhaps, 
Forget  then  to  be  true  ? 

If  at  your  feet  I  laid  my  heart 

For  you  to  take, 
Would  you  do  more  than  lift  it  up 

To  let  it  fall  and  break  ? 

If  I  should  send  the  searching  sweep 

Of  fasting  love 
Down  in  thy  heart's  deep  well,  and  brought 

Naught  to  the  brink  above, 

I  there  would  faint,  in  sight  of  draughts 

I  might  not  drink  ; 
And,  famished  for  the  far-down  drops, 

Die  on  the  stony  brink ! 

Oh  such  a  shuddering  sense  I  know 

Of  fearful  dread 
Lest  living  love  of  mine  seek  yours 

And  find  it  icy — dead  ! 

22  *  R  257 


258  SACRAMENTUM  A  MORIS. 

Lest  it  should  seek  to  warm  itself 

In  your  dear  hold, 
And,  finding  Love's  bright  fire  gone  out, 

Die  there  of  cruel  cold  ! 

Of  all  Life's  fearful  hungerings 

The  heart's  is  worst — 
Unceasing  draughts  of  Love  cannot 

Quench  Love's  unceasing  thirst. 

And  thee  I  know  so  sadly  well ! 

The  love  divine 
Which  my  exacting  heart  would  crave 

I  know  is  not  in  thine  ! 

'Midst  thy  life's  sculptures  then,  my  heart 

Thou  may'st  not  carve — 
Nor  yield  I  thee  the  living  thing, 

Lest  thou  should'st  let  it  starve  ! 

Yet  I  may  give  you  all  my  life 

Unknown  to  you — 
Content  to  see  you  glad  and  free, 

Whilst  I  alone  am  true. 

To  soften  with  an  unseen  care 

Thy  daily  path, 
To  give  thee,  out  of  my  own  life, 

The  sweetest  flower  it  hath  ; 

To  press  from  fruits  of  my  best  days 

Wine  for  thy  lips, 
And  joy  to  see  thee  drink,  nor  taste 

The  dregs  that  my  life  sips  ; 


SACRAMENTUM  AMORIS.  259 

To  lead  thee  with  an  unseen  hand 

To  noble  things, 
To  hear  thee  give  grand  utterance 

To  grand  imaginings ; 

To  see  thee  write  to  all  the  world 

With  mighty  pen, 
Made  from  the  plumes  of  thine  own  soul, 

Truths  for  thy  fellow-men  ; 

To  see  thee  pass  to  all  that's  best 

Across  my  heart, 
Unclogged  by  its  exactions  fond, — 

This  is  my  chosen  part. 

So,  go  thy  way  without  me,  nor 

At  fate  repine ; 
My  heart  I  give  not ;  but  for  life 

My  soul,  my  soul  is  thine  ! 


AT    THE    WHEEL. 

THAT  "  constant  employment   is  constant  enjoy- 
ment" 

I  often  have  heard  the  dear  old  people  say ; 
But  fuller  the  measure  of  my  simple  pleasure 
If  Robin  and  I  were  but  roaming  to-day. 

Here  I  must  keep  busy,  though  weary  and  dizzy, 

Still  whirling  my  wheel  and  still  spinning  my  thread, 

Though  harvests  are  yellow  and  bird-notes  are  mellow, 
And  lips  of  wild  roses  glow  fervent  and  red ! 

The  path  through  the  meadow  lies  cool  in  the  shadow, 
The  mischievous  brook  laughs  aloud  in  the  vale  ; 

The  cry  of  the  plover  floats  tunefully  over 
The  rattle  of  oziers  that  redden  the  swale. 

The  bee  from  the  bosom  of  red-clover  blossom 
Has  hurried  to  sip  of  the  buckwheat  in  bloom ; 

The  blush  of  the  thistle,  the  blackbird's  clear  whistle, 
Are  blent  with  the  summer-day's  light  and  perfume. 

The  soft  wandering  gale  fills  a  silvery  sail, 
That  idly  floats  by  on  yon  far-away  stream, 

And  a  frail  spirit-boat,  'neath  the  other  doth  float 
Faintly  fair,  like  some  beautiful  dream  of  a  dream. 


AT   THE    WHEEL.  261 

With  odor  of  myrtle  the  voice  of  the  turtle 
Comes  drowsily  up  from  the  valley  below — 

I  hear  the  dull  rapping  of  woodpeckers  tapping 
The  bark  where  the  hollow  old  sycamores  grow. 

The  beetle  is  humming  of  autumn  days  coming, 
And  swings  in  its  leaf-hammock  hung  in  the  vale — 

The  lily  gasps  faintly,  as  passionless,  saintly, 
It  stands  in  the  path  of  the  libertine  gale. 

The  clink,  clink  of  the  blade  rises  clear  from  the  glade, 
Where,  sharpening  his  scythe,  stands  the  whistling 
mower, 

While  the  gossipping  crow  on  his  tall  hickory  bough 
Sits  moodily  muttering  his  meaningless  lore. 

There  are  mystical  fingers  whose  gentle  touch  lingers, 
It  seems,  as  I  listen,  on  yon  golden  plain, 

There  blending  and  shading  and  lovingly  braiding 
The  sunbeams  astray  with  the  beard  of  the  grain. 

With  tired  hand  twirling  the  wheel  that  keeps  whirling, 
The  wearisome  spindle  I  speed  all  the  day — 

With  the  whirl  of  the  wheel  how  my  brain  seems  to  reel, 
And  longs  from  the  dull  hum  to  hurry  away ! 

I  shall  eagerly  watch  the  first  star-ray  to  catch, 

That  shall  tell  when  the  sun  lieth  low  in  the  west ; 

When  swallows  home  darting  tell  day  is  departing, 
And  night  brings  the  toiler  sweet  guerdon  of  rest. 

Then  over  the  hollow  and  green  summer  fallow 
I  shall  hear  the  loud  summons  of  co'boss,  co'boss ; 

While  "  Lineback"   and  "  Dover,"  breaths  sweetened 

with  clover, 
The  cool,  fragrant  pastures  come  slowly  across. 


262  AT   THE    WHEEL. 

With  "  Brownie"  and  "  Daisy,"  milk-laden  and  lazy — 
The  gentle-eyed  heifer  half  standing  aloof, 

While  the  dew-laden  grass  gently  yields  as  they  pass 
To  the  lingering  print  of  each  slowly-raised  hoof. 

Then  away,  then  away,  as  dies  the  long  day, 

O'er  the  patTT  that  leads  down  to  the  sycamore  grove, 

Where  dear  Robin  will  wait  by  the  old  wicket  gate, 
With  a  smile  for  my  eyes  and  a  heart  for  my  love  ! 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


L9-42m-8,'49(B5573)444 


PS    Townsend 
3089 


L  007  037  703 


PS 
3089 


